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UNIVERSITY 
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ANGELES 


A    BACHELOR'S    STORY. 


BACHELOR'S  STORY 


By  Oliver   Bunce 


NEW       YORK 

RUDD   &    CARLETON     130    GRAND     STREET 

(BROOKS  BUILDING  COR  OF   BROADWAY) 

MDCCCLIX. 


ENTERED  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1859,  by 

OLIVER    BUNCE, 

In  the  Clerk'i  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southern  District  of 
N»w  York. 


W.  H.  Tmtoic,  St«reotyp«r.  R.  CRAIBHBAD,  Printer. 


\m 


t?A  GENTLEMAN  THAT  LOVES  TO  HEAR  HIMSELF 
TALK;  AND  WILL  SPEAK  MORE  IN  A  MINUTE  THAN 
HE  WILL  STAND  TO  IN  A  MONTH." 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 


1631478 


P  E  E  F  A  C  E. 


IF  any  demand  a  reason  why  these  pages 
are  given  to  the  world,  I  reply  in  the  lan 
guage  of  Shelley :  "  The  spirits  that  I  have 
raised  haunt  me  until  they  are  sent  to  the 
devil  of  a  printer.  All  authors  are  anxious 
to  breech  their  bantlings." 


I. 

Maggie  and  I  begin  by  being  cosy — Our  chats 
formally  initiated — An  introduction  or  two,  and  like 
French  falconers,  we  fly  at  anything — I  wax  egotistical, 
philosophical,  topographical,  sentimental,  and  end  by  a 
retrospective  digression. 


1* 


A  BACHELOR'S    STORY. 


I 

66  ~1VTOW  we  are  alone,   Maggie,   drop    the 
_1_  i      curtains.       Shut   out  the  world  ;  shut 

in  our  quiet.     Move  that  screen  and  let  the  fire 

light  shine  on  us  both.     So  I" 

"  There,  sir,  all  done.     How  pleasant  1" 

"  Then  come  here,  little  elf.     I  have  talk  for  you. 

Nestle  on  that  low  seat ;  look  down  into  the  fire  ; 

let  my  words  flow  easily  into  your  ear — for  such  an 

attitude  is  your  true  listener's. 

"  How  calm  1     The  clock  ticks,  the  fire  snaps, 

the  curtains  rustle  slightly  in  little  eddies  of  wind, 

but  these  are  things  that  make  the  silence  iuteuser. 

We  shall  need  no  candle.      I  like  fire-lighted  rooms, 

whose  warm,  mellow  tints  gently  excite  to  reverie. 

The  glare  of  gas  drowns  one's  thoughts  ;   the  full 

it 


12  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

eloquence  of  the  heart  wells  up  only  under  the 
richer  tints  of  the  blazing  fire.  And  so,  Maggie, 
our  nights  begin." 

Maggie  comes  weekly  to  take  a  place  at  my 
bachelor  fireside,  and  listen  to  the  loquacious  gossip 
of  a  garrulous  old  fellow,  who  likes  good  talk  and 
a  good  listener.  She  is  the  daughter  of  a  neighbor, 
Farmer  Dean,  a  skeptical,  free-thinking  fellow,  who 
wears  a  long  beard,  an  independent  dress,  while  in 
his  address  is  independence  enlarged  upon.  But 
between  Maggie  and  me  there  has  sprung  up  an 
odd  friendship.  She  comes  to  my  cottage  (a 
bachelor's  dull  retreat,  where  I  live  alone  with  my 
books,  my  dreams,  and  a  Hibernian  factotum), 
tumbles  over  my  books,  listens  to  my  caprices  of  talk, 
and  affords  just  such  companionship  to  a  world-loru 
old  man  as  his  wayward  sympathies  require.  She  is 
a  wild,  impetuous  creature,  with  depths  of  charac 
ter  I  take  pleasure  in  developing — a  neglected  child 
of  genius,  whose  powers,  long  dormant,  I  am  watch 
ing  leap  into  life. 

Maggie,  with  her  own  deep,  thoughtful  way, 
looked  into  the  fire,  yet  turned  a  listening  ear  to 
me.  I  paused  briefly,  watching  the  mantel  clock 
crisply  and  sharply  flinging  the  seconds  off,  and  fairly 
pelting  the  air  with  them  ;  then  lazily  stretching  my 
feet  upon  the  fender,  the  talk  came  murmuringly. 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  13 

"  We  are  to  chat,  Mag,  and  dream,  and  give  our 
fancies  sportive  wing  ;  and  looking  down  into  our 
hearts,  bring  up  what  odd  conceits  and  pleasant 
sentiments  we  can  find ;  and  brighten  up  the 
weapons  of  our  wit  to  pierce  the  bubbles  and  vani 
ties  we  shall  make  war  upon  ;  and  you,  Maggie, 
shall  be  my  Greek  chorus — the  medium  between  my 
monologues  and  all  outside  barbarians." 

"  Sir,"  said  Maggie. 

Now  Maggie's  thoughts  flow  out  in  a  keen  direct 
line,  like  the  blaze  from  a  lantern — and  like  the 
lantern,  with  a  dark  side.  Maggie  has  no  humor. 
A  riotous  and  hearty  mirth  at  times,  I  grant  you, 
but  mirth,  my  masters,  is  not  humor.  Perpend  1 
Mirth  is  animal  briskness  ;  the  caper  and  frolic  of  a 
spirit  whose  wave  of  keen  feelings  tops  to  a  joyous 
crest,  and  through  mere  excess  of  life  and  force, 
laughs  and  is  merry.  Mirth  is  a  spontaneity  ;  it 
springs  none  know  whence  ;  it  may  be  drunk  in 
from  the  atmosphere  ;  it  is  the  leap  of  exultation  ; 
the  noisy  (for  mirth  must  be  noisy)  hilarity  of  a 
quick  blood.  But  humor  is  the  fantastic  play  of  the 
fancy.  It  lies  in  the  sudden  collision  of  incongruous 
elements,  in  the  ludicrous  combination  of  fantastic 
images,  and  is  purely  the  offspring  of  intellectual 
legerdemain.  Mirth  is  innocent  of  idea,  uncon 
scious  of  fancy,  utterly  independent  of  the  brain — 


14  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

mirth  is  my  pulse  at  a  hundred  ;  humor,  my  fancy 
rippling  over  a  mine  of  deep  and  silent  emotion — for 
near  to  the  laugh  of  all  humor,  is  the  tear  of  all 
pathos. 

From  this  maze  of  dilucidation  I  hasten  to  be 
delivered,  for  emotions  and  fancies,  not  words,  are 
the  subjects  I  propose  to  dissect — the  school  in 
which  I  can,  perhaps,  best  succeed  as  the  exegete. 
Therefore,  I  come  back  to  Maggie.  I  spiced  my 
speech  to  Maggie  with  a  single  seed  of  humor,  but 
she  saw  it  not,  and  her  wondering  "  Sir,"  chilled  me 
into  the  consciousness  thereof.  I  say  chilled,  and  I 
use  a  happy  term.  In  the  social  thermometer,  how 
often  does  the  cold,  unsympathizing  "  Sir,"  plunge 
the  mercury  down  to  freezing  point  ?  "  Sir," 
has  cut  short  my  most  eloquent  harangues,  clipped, 
ere  they  were  fairly  winged,  my  happiest  sayings, 
and  dragged  down  into  dust  my  loftiest  flights. 
Oh,  it  is  a  biting  word  in  the  mouths  of  these 
"  envious  Cascas," — a  cold  North  wind,  that  just  as 
you  slip  the  leash  of  your  fancy,  and  bid  it  soar, 
blows  it  back,  be-draggled  and  chopfallen,  in  your 
face. 

I  made  haste  to  change  the  subject ;  and  here  let 
me  say,  that  Maggie  and  I  reserve  the  privilege  to 
be  as  abrupt  as  we  please.  No  matter  at  what 
speed  we  may  be  driving  at  a  subject,  if  we  choose 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  15 

to  pause,  even  midway  in  our  career,  and  amble  off 
either  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  the  reader  shall  not 
complain.  There  shall  be  no  graduating  of  the  tints 
we  use.  From  dark  to  light,  from  sadness  to  mirth, 
as  our  moods  come  and  go,  we  shall  abandon  our 
selves  to  the  wanton  waves  of  caprice — emotion, 
fancy,  humor,  whatever  uppermost  hi  thought,  up 
permost  in  expression. 

"  I  have  been  to  town,  Maggie." 

"  The  city  ?  I  pine  to  see  it.  So  splendid — is  it 
not,  sir  ?" 

"Two  parallels,  Mag.  A  stream  bright,  flashing, 
gay  ;  a  rainbow  upon  its  waves,  fascination  in  the 
music  of  its  flow  ;  genius,  life,  beauty  crowning  it 
with  a  glory.  The  other,  its  fellow,  a  dark,  dead 
current,  with  loathsome  vices  upon  its  surface,  and 
the  dregs  of  unnumbered  crimes  clodding  its  bed." 

"  Alas,  how  wicked  1" 

"  And  yet  a  brave  world,  Mag.'" 

"  My  father  says  it  is  depraved — dishonest — hol 
low — false." 

"  Out  upon  the  farmer's  philosophy  !  There  is 
the  bitter  taste  of  all  his  hard  materialism,  and  his 
many  isms." 

"  I  have  not  found  the  world  so  bad,  sir.  Have 
you  ?" 

"  No.     There  are  many  reasons  why  I  cling  to  an 


16  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

old  begotten  faith  in  humanity,  and  among  them  is  a 
rampant,  active  egotism." 

"  I  can't  well  understand  that." 

"  If  the  world  is  depraved  I  cannot  exempt  myself 
from  the  general  infirmity.  To  that  truth  my  phi 
losophy  persistently  points  ;  self-love,  self-worship 
and  self-faith,  therefore,  keep  my  judgments  of  the 
world  in  charitable  trim  ;  my  exaltations  of  human 
ity  are  a  mirror  hi  which  my  vanity  disports. 

"  But,  indeed,  Maggie,  to  those  who  look  closely 
and  well  the  world  is  not  other  than  fair.  Every 
where  household  gods  are  set  up  and  loved  ;  affec 
tions  flourish  in  the  most  forsaken  soils  ;  love  and 
tenderness  put  forth  their  sweetness  in  the  abandoned 
places  of  the  world  ;  courage,  fortitude,  self-abnega 
tion  have  their  heroes  every  hour." 

"  But  history,  sir  1  My  father  says  it  is  one  record 
of  crime." 

"  History,  Mag,  is  a  pair  of  seven-league  boots. 
It  stalks  from  war  to  war,  from  crime  to  crime,  and 
does  not  see  the  smiling  valleys  between.  It  is  the 
world's  ^Newgate  calendar,  bloody  with  the  record 
of  passion,  ambition,  and  power ;  or  it  is  a  drama 
wherein  are  crowded  in  a  few  brief  scenes  the  crimes 
of  generations.  Ah,  Maggie,  the  cynics  do  not 
plumb  the  deepest.  And  is  it  not  well  if  we  find, 
as  I  think  we  do,  beneath  the  strata  of  wrong  and 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  17 

selfishness,  the  world's  surface  shows,  a  generous  and 
a  pure  current,  permeating  the  heart  of  humanity, 
and  destined  some  day  to  lift  up  and  purify  us  all  ? 
It  is  better  to  believe  that  the  evil  in  us  comes  up  to 
the  surface.  It  will  give  us  hope  and  heart. 

"  But  in  truth  no  one  accepts  this  common,  trans 
parent  satire  of  the  world  and  human  nature  as  ap 
plied  to  himself.  Each  man  claps  himself  on  the 
back  as  a  brilliant  exception  ;  where  all  are  rotten, 
he  claims  to  be  undented. 

"  When  hi  town  I  went  to  see  the  comedy  of '  Money' 
acted.  The  sentiment  of  this  play  is  the  cheapest  froth 
in  the  world,  but  it  tickles  the  general  ear  mightily. 
Your  misanthropical  dogs,  who  wing  these  baited 
shafts  of  satire,  are  liked  ;  and  it  was  strange  to  see 
the  people  applaud  the  broad,  coarse  hits  at  their 
own  follies.  Why?  Because  each  man  believed 
that  it  was  not  himself  but  his  neighbor  that  was 
satirized.  And  so  did  I.  When  Evelyn  uttered 
this  pithy  sentiment,  '  God  made  man,  but  see 
(pointing  to  a  gold  coin)  what  man  has  made  a 
god,'  how  magnanimously  I  handed  over  the  applica 
tion  to  everybody  else  1  And  thus  it  is.  Do  you 
know  why  the  world  is  no  better  than  it  is  ?  Be 
cause  each  of  us  believes  that  the  warnings,  the 
teachings,  the  wise  inculcations,  the  hits  at  folly, 
the  moral  aphorisms,  the  shafts  shot  at  vice  and 


l8  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

crime  from  pulpit,  press,  and  stage,  are  all  intended 
for  our  right-hand  neighbor,  and  our  left-hand  neigh 
bor — our  withers  are  unwrung." 

"  Tell  me  something,  sir,  of  the  town,"  broke  in 
Maggie,  apparently  indifferent  to  my  homily. 

"  Humph  !  I  am  not  topographical,  nor  was  I 
born  for  the  style  of  a  guide-book.  I  will  paint  the 
picture  that  I  best  remember — and  if  you  are  as 
able  as  I  think  you  are,  it  will  be  to  you  like  the 
single  leaf  by  whose  structure  the  botanist  knows 
the  whole  tree. 

"  I  was  on  Broadway,  at  the  head  of  the  great 
money-street,  within  the  shadow  of  Trinity.  On  the 
stone  base  of  the  railing  of  the  church-yard,  a  blind 
Scotchman  was  seated,  playing  upon  a  bag-pipe. 
He  had  a  sad,  wan  countenance,  whose  predominant 
expression  was  that  of  utter  and  overwhelming  lone 
liness.  His  music  floated  upon  the  air  unheeded 
by  the  crowd,  and  mingled  with  the  whirl  and 
clatter  of  that  busy  spot  in  sweetness  wasted.  No 
one  paused  to  give  him  a  single  glance.  The  itine 
rant  musician's  customary  audience  of  idle  boys  was 
not  there.  The  cold  stones  of  the  church  tower 
were  no  more  deaf  to  him  than  was  all  the  world 
beside.  Still  he  calmly,  steadily  played  on,  a  pic 
ture  of  utter  desolation,  an  object  of  the  most 
pitiful  loneliness  and  dreariness,  set  down  where  life 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  19 

was  busiest,  gayest,  swiftest.  Even  the  church, 
within  whose  shadow  he  sat,  made  his  desolation 
the  more  apparent.  That  grand  edifice,  reared  in 
His  name,  seemed  to  repel  the  poor  outcast  from  its 
bosom.  The  barred  portal  shut  him  out  from  its 
protection.  The  spire  above  him  seemed  to  point  to 
heaven  for  all  the  world  save  him.  His  aching  heart 
was  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  at  the  threshold  of  the 
church,  and  yet  it  beat  lonely,  drearily. 

"  I  wondered,  Maggie,  as  I  looked  upon  him. 
Was  his  daily  life  a  blank  like  this  ?  Was  the 
world  all  black  to  him — to  his  soul  as  well  as  to 
his  sight,  with  no  more  joy  in  his  heart  than  there 
was  sunlight  upon  his  path  ?  Did  a  pall  of  gloom  and 
darkness  forever  close  him  in,  through  which  no 
light  whatever  penetrated  ?  Ever,  ever  alone,  as 
now,  playing  his  wasted  music,  with  never  a  caress, 
nor  a  word  of  tenderness  nor  of  sympathy  !  What 
a  life  to  lead  if  this  were  so  !  An  awe  overcomes 
ine  at  the  thought  of  that  man's  heart  plunged  in 
such  a  dungeon,  worse  than  ever  invented  by  man, 
feeding  its  hopes,  aspirations,  sympathies,  emotions 
upon  perpetual  and  rayless  darkness,  where  not  even 
a  star  glimmers  1" 

"  Who  knows  ?"  said  Maggie,  "  there  might  have 
been  for  him  somewhere  those  two  needs,  love  and 
home." 


2O  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

"  Aye.  But  his  desolate  air  haunts  me  ;  and  it 
is  too  fearfully  certain  that  thousands  of  such  help 
less  creatures  flow  down  to  eternity  through  blank- 
uess,  weariness  and  unutterable  suffering." 

"  How  terrible  !" 

"  Terrible  !  Sometimes  in  the  very  top  of  my 
pleasures,  when  the  heart  is  leaping  quick  and 
glad,  I  am  hurled  upon  that  thought  with  a  shock 
that  quivers  through  my  frame,  and  holds  me  in 
'bated  breath.  The  wastes,  the  miseries,  the 
beauty  that  blooms  and  fades,  the  life  that  comes 
so  dearly  and  goes  so  cheaply,  the  strides  of  calam 
ity,  the  cheap  value  nature  everywhere  seems  to  set 
upon  her  own  creations,  appall  and  confound  me 
always.  Tune,  Mag,  is  nothing  but  a  lubberly  boy 
perpetually  blowing  bubbles  that  float  up  into  the 
sunshine  gay  and  glittering,  and  with  a  puff  they 
exhale  into  air.  And  the  briefest  of  ah1  things  is 
happiness.  Youth  leaps  up  lusty  and  glad,  but  sud 
denly,  at  the  very  crest  of  joy  and  strength,  a 
breath  comes  out  of  a  cloud  and  it  withers — the 
limbs  droop,  the  eye  pales,  the  brow  is  shadowed, 
and  life  sinks  into  the  bent  spine  and  the  clogged 
heart." 

"  I  declare,  sir,  you  are  sad." 

"  So  I  am,  but  will  change  my  mood  with  the 
facility  of  a  politician. 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  21 

"  You  know,  Mag,  that  by  the  testimony  of  hard 
measurement  my  study  extends  a  few  feet  north  and 
a  few  feet  east ;  but  to-day,  surveying  it  leisurely, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  bald  fact  never  came  so  utterly 
short  of  general  truth.  Its  real  dimensions  cannot 
be  measured.  Look  to  the  right,  and  the  walls 
open  into  space  and  back  into  tune — old  Italy,  far- 
off  Egypt,  ancient  Rome,  carry  eye  and  memory 
hence ;  look  to  the  left,  and  sweet  landscapes, 
meandering  rivers,  rare  old  woods,  are  before  us, 
where  fancy  may  disport  and  the  soul  fill  itself  with 
beauties.  Such  are  pictures.  Your  miserable  feet 
and  inches  are  for  rooms  whose  sides  are  not 
studded  with  these  'soul  windows,'  which  let  out 
the  fancy  into  spaces  that  are  almost  infinite. 
Rooms  like  ours,  Mag,  cannot  be  compassed  by  a 
carpenter's  rule — their  boundaries  are  limited  only 
by  the  reaches  of  imagination." 

"  But  books,  sir,  are  grander  than  pictures.  Poe 
try  for  instance." 

"  Why,  poetry,  Mag,  is  not  necessarily  versifica 
tion — it  is  simply  caged  when  it  gets  into  rhyme. 
Books  are  capital  things — sometimes — I  grant  you  ; 
I  have  loved  them  more  or  less  ever  since  I've  been 
a  bachelor.  But  books  demand  premeditated  enjoy 
ment  ;  effort,  purpose  aforethought,  preliminaries 
of  preparation,  such  as  cut  leaves,  an  amiable  tern- 


22  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

per,  and  a  snuffed  candle.  But  pictures  flash  into 
the  heart,  flood  the  soul  with  sudden  tenderness, 
start  into  life  with  an  electric  touch  the  sleeping 
sympathies — a  look  and  presto  !  upon  your  heart  is 
photographed  forever  a  new  form  of  beauty." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Maggie,  musingly  ;  "but  books 
excite  me,  fill  me  with  strange  feelings.  I  like  them 
best,  sir." 

"And  I  profess  utter  catholicity  of  taste,  and 
love  the  universal  range  of  the  beautiful.  I  am  per 
petually  asked  who  is  my  favorite  author.  Now 
that  question  is  absurd.  It  always  reminds  me  of 
the  perturbation  of  a  young  western  farmer,  whose 
matrimonial  and  agricultural  tendencies  were  per 
plexed  by  certain  economical  considerations,  apper 
taining  to  each,  and  who,  hi  consequence,  gravely 
submitted  to  the  village  Debating  Society  this  pro 
blem  :  Which  is  most,  a  barn  or  a  wife  1 

"  Amusingly  diverse  as  are  the  issues  involved  in 
this  question,  they  are  scarcely  more  so  than  this 
continually  forcing  the  mind  to  a  choice  between 
elements  of  taste,  pleasure,  enjoyment  and  apprecia 
tion,  so  various,  multiplied,  and  infinite  as  those  em 
ployed  or  created  by  our  various  authors.  I  abso 
lutely  decline  saying,  for  I  cannot  say,  whether  I 
weep  more  exquisitely  over  Lear,  than  I  laugh  enjoy- 
ably  with  Touchstone.  And  I  here  declare,  that  my 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  23 

mind  is  of  that  variable,  apish,  fantastic  character, 
that  it  reflects  with  equal  fidelity,  not  only  all  the 
various  emotions  of  the  poet,  but  all  the  character 
istics  and  specific  beauties  of  each  individual  poet. 
Must  I  like  but  one  man,  one  book,  one  set  of  ideas, 
one  mode  of  frame-work  ?  Pshaw  !  My  appetites 
are  infinite — my  tastes  adjust  themselves  to  innu 
merable  qualities,  and  they  run  the  gamut  down  from 
Hamlet  to  Paul  Pry.  I  do  not  mean  to  pasture  on 
one  field  alone  ;  to  eat  nothing  but  roast  beef ;  to 
tickle  my  palate  with  but  one  sauce.  In  the  whole 
wide  realm  of  creative  art,  sculpture,  poetry,  painting, 
I  absorb  idea  and  pleasure,  and  flit  with  utter  pli 
ancy  of  imagination,  from  the  sublime  to  the  lowly, 
from  sweet  airs  to  grand  orchestral  bursts,  through 
all  tunes,  tones,  phases,  and  modes  of  feeling." 

"  Then  you  have  no  favorite  ?"  said  Maggie. 

"  Yes,  Nature  !  Admirable  when  art  is  faithful 
in  her  reproduction ;  best  in  her  unadorned  sim 
plicity." 

As  I  spoke  the  door  suddenly  flew  open  and  a 
grotesque,  comical  looking  lad  fell  into  the  room. 
I  say  fell  deliberately,  for  Ike — a  youngster  prema 
turely  smitten  with  love  for  Maggie — amid  a  multi 
tude  of  modes  and  means  of  locomotion,  was  uncon 
scious  of  that  simple  one  known  as  walking.  He 
either  rolled,  plunged,  sidled,  bounced,  crept,  turn- 


24  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

bled,  or  progressed  by  a  means  composite  of  all 
these,  but  absolutely  walk  no  mortal  ever  saw  him 
do.  Upon  this  occasion  the  door  flew  open,  his  head 
bolted  in,  followed  by  a  confusion  of  limbs,  but  in  no 
ascertainable  sequence. 

Soon  after  my  first  acquaintance  with  Maggie 
(whom  I  used  to  meet  in  my  long  solitary  forest 
rambles  with  such  frequency  that  friendship  grew 
ftpace  between  us),  as  we  were  sauntering  together 
down  a  green  lane,  an  object  suddenly  thrust  its  head 
and  then  its  body  over  the  roadside  wall.  It  was  a 
boy  of  about  fifteen  years  of  age.  His  hair  was 
white,  and  forced  itself  in  tangled  masses  through  a 
huge  rent  in  his  hat ;  his  eyes  were  white  ;  his  eye 
brows  were  white  ;  his  whole  aspect  was  that  of  hav 
ing  been  bleached.  You  could  not  look  at  him  with 
out  serious  doubts  as  to  the  color  of  his  blood.  He 
was  from  head  to  foot  tattered  and  torn  ;  barefooted, 
shy  ;  and  no  creature  ever  so  decidedly  needed  a  tail 
to  his  coat.  And  this  was  Maggie's  lover.  It  was 
the  first  time  I  ever  beheld  him. 

He  was  the  son  and  heir  of  a  neighboring  farmer, 
and  first  met  Maggie  at  the  village  school.  It  was 
a  case  of  love  at  first  sight.  He  would,  from  that 
time  forward,  be  near  Maggie  if  it  were  possible  ;  at 
play  hours,  he  would  devise  plans  to  get  among  the 
girls ;  he  would  bring  her  the  choicest  apples  and 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  25 

the  finest  berries,  and  was  always  during  school  hours 
surreptitiously  slipping  fruit,  cake,  and  such  matters 
into  her  lap.  After  school,  he  would  follow  her  at  a 
respectful  distance,  until  her  companions  would  drop 
off,  and  then  with  an  awkward,  sly  excuse,  edge  up 
to  her  side. 

He  would  make  errands  to  her  father's  house.  If 
Maggie  was  alone,  he  would  ask  her  to  have  an 
apple  or  a  plum ;  but  if  others  were  by,  he  would 
stand  and  stare  into  her  face  without  speaking,  and 
with  all  his  might. 

He  would  roam  the  forest  for  flowers,  and  come 
staggering  into  Maggie's  presence  with  bouquets  of 
mountain  laurel,  and  such  forest  growths,  bigger 
than  himself — with  which  Maggie  would  decorate 
the  old-fashioned  fireplace  ;  and  they  were  generally 
quite  ample  enough  to  entirely  fill  it. 

He  fought  innumerable  battles  on  her  account ; 
and  sometimes  rushed  into  her  presence  with  stream 
ing  nose,  that  she  might  note  and  fully  appreciate 
the  greatness  of  his  devotion. 

I  do  not  know  that  he  ever  proposed  ;  or  that 
they  indulged  in  those  pleasant  prattlings  under 
shady  trees,  which  lovers  delight  in  ;  or  that  he  com 
posed  sonnets  to  her  beauty  ;  or  that  they  took  moon 
light  rambles  together. 


2 


26  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

Maggie  laughed  at  her  uncouth  lover,  but  she  was 
too  tender-hearted  to  let  him  see  it. 

But  when  Maggie  and  I  grew  intimate,  and  took 
walks  and  chatted  over  books  together,  fearfully 
grew  the  rage  of  this  young  Colin.  When  we  met, 
he  frowned  at  me  ferociously,  and  looked  as  black  as 
his  white  face  permitted  ;  or  stood  apart,  scowling 
and  red.  He  nursed  in  his  little  body  a  most  tre 
mendous  hatred  of  me,  and  seemed  to  pant  for  some 
huge  and  terrible  revenge. 

Unhappy  Ike  I  To  have  tasted  of  the  grand  pas 
sion,  and  all  its  bitter  consequences,  so  early  in  life  ! 
Better  to  have  stuck  to  your  marbles  and  hoops, 
Ike. 

Once  when  Maggie  and  I  were  hunting  on  the 
banks  of  a  little  stream  for  those  woodland  blossoms 
which  flourish  hi  low  places  upon  the  banks  of 
streams,  Ike  suddenly  rushed  by  us  in  a  frantic  man 
ner,  and  plunged  deliberately  into  the  stream.  Mag 
gie  gave  a  little  shriek  ;  and  we  both  ran  after  him. 
As  we  came  up,  he  had  floundered  through  to  the 
opposite  bank,  where  he  stood,  dripping  and  muddy, 
shaking  his  fist  in  the  ah*,  and  with  mutterings  deep 
declaring  that  he  would  drown  himself.  Maggie, 
suppressing  a  laugh,  wanted  to  know  his  reason  for 
this  determination,  whereupon  he  scowled  at  me  with 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  27 

all  the  ferocity  he  could  assume,  and  then  rushed  into 
the  brushwood  that  surrounded  him. 

He  also  evinced  his  despair  in  other  ways  equally 
grotesque.  Once  he  insisted  upon  standing  on  his 
head  for  ten  minutes  in  succession.  After  this,  he 
adopted  the  plan  of  shutting  his  eyes  tight  whenever 
he  would  see  Maggie  coming ;  then,  whenever  her 
eyes  were  upon  him,  he  would  begin  to  butt  what 
ever  was  at  hand,  whether  tree  or  stone.  But,  still 
Maggie  remained  obdurate  ;  and  poor  Ike,  sadly  for 
lorn,  grew  piteously  melancholy  and  more  dirty  and 
ragged  than  ever. 

But  when  I  proposed  to  Maggie  to  sit  by  my 
lonely  fireside,  and  listen  to  an  old  man's  talk,  I 
opened  negotiations  with  Ike  for  a  treaty  of  peace, 
in  order  that  he  might  be  Maggie's  escort  to  and 
from  the  "  farm."  I  began  by  proposing  a  weekly 
stipend  of  sixpence.  This  nearly  proved  victorious 
at  the  start.  I  then  proceeded,  by  forcible  logic  re 
duced  to  his  obtuse  capacity,  to  prove  how  im 
probable  and  absurd  it  was  to  suppose  that  a  gentle 
man  aged  fifty,  scantily  supplied  with  that  tonsorial 
adornment,  which,  in  his  own  case,  flourished  like  a 
wilderness — upon  whose  features  crusty  Time  had 
stamped  indelible  wrinkles  and  crow's-feet,  and 
whose  visage  possessed  at  no  time  Adonian  graces — 
could  hope  to  supplant  one  of  so  much  youth  and 


28  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

natural  fascinations  as  himself  in  the  affections  of  his 
Dulcinea, 

My  diplomacy  was  successful ;  but  I  do  not  know 
whether  it  was  the  stipend  or  the  logic  that  proved 
the  most  powerful  agent. 


II. 

A  dream  before  a  Bachelor's  hearth  which  was  not 
all  a  dream. 


II. 


AFTER  Maggie  and  Ike  had  gone,  I  stood  by 
the  window,  looking  at  the  moon  rising 
behind,  the  forest — the  ravaged  forest  that  lifted 
its  torn  trunks,  bereft  of  their  summer  offspring, 
mutely  and  pitifully  to  heaven.  The  moon  was 
dungeoned  by  clouds,  but  gleamed  through  open 
bars,  and  its  vast  red  disc  seemed  to  set  all  the 
forest  ablaze.  In  the  morning  there  was  a  wind, 
and  I  walked  forth,  ushered  by  troops  of  leaves, 
that  rushed  before  me  and  danced  in  my  path  as  if 
I  were  a  monarch  ;  some  came  clamoring,  jostling, 
and  eager  behind  me,  like  swarms  of  hungry  place- 
seekers.  But  at  night  the  wind  was  hushed,  and 
upon  the  meadows,  the  garden  walks,  the  roads,  the 
dead  leaves  lay  ghostly  still.  There  was  a  hush 
everywhere.  The  moon  came  mutely  up,  the  trees 
silently  darkened  themselves  against  its  light,  the 
shadows  crept  like  ghosts,  the  roads  lay  white  as 
grave-stones.  So  melancholy  and  death-like  was 

81 


32  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

the  scene  that  I  dropped  the  curtain,  and  stepping 
stealthily  back  to  my  chair,  wheeled  it  before  the 
fire,  slumberously  droning  in  the  full-mouthed  grate. 

Down  amid  the  red  labyrinths  of  burning  coals, 
I  see  visions  and  dreams  always — and  at  midnight 
hours  how  many,  many  a  castle  have  I  built  out  of 
the  ashes  and  embers  of  my  lonely  hearth  ! 

For  I  am  a  bachelor  ruminant.  Whatever  I  may 
have  been  hi  the  hey-day  of  youth,  my  life,  since  its 
decline  into  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf,  has  been  one 
of  lonely  reverie — an  anchorite's  seclusion,  in  which 
philosophy  and  rumination  have  compounded  the 
elements  of  a  curious  melancholy.  Just  frosted, 
just  struck  into  parti-colored  white  and  grey,  with 
November  wrinkles  upon  my  temples  and  Indian 
haze  in  my  eyes,  my  life  wanes  into  autumn  mellow 
ness — all  the  colors,  tones  and  tints,  the  remini 
scences  merely  of  a  blooming  summer  past. 

The  fire  was  low,  and  seizing  the  poker  I  stirred 
it  into  a  sparkling  and  cheering  blaze.  The  glow 
fell  so  pleasantly  upon  my  face,  that  I  dropped  lan 
guidly  back  into  the  wide  ample  chair,  and  adjusted 
my  limbs  into  a  luxurious  repose,  fit  for  mellow 
dreams. 

As  I  did  so,  my  eye  for  an  instant  fell  upon  a 
little  toilet  mirror  upon  the  mantel,  whose  angle 
reflected  all  the  room  behind  me.  I  started,  rubbed 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  33 

my  eyes,  and  threw  a  hasty  glance  over  the  back 
of  my  chair.  Nothing  there  !  It  was  fancy — but 
in  that  mirror  I  seemed  distinctly  to  see,  between 
me  and  the  wall,  a  shapeless  mass,  mist-like  and 
dun,  swaying  slowly  to  and  fro. 

I  laughed  at  the  fancy,  and  began  staring  at  the 
fire.  Then  I  thought  of  many  ghost-stories,  and 
fell  into  dreamy  meditations  upon  the  supernatural, 
the  wild,  and  the  wonderful.  I  thought  of  one  ter 
rible  fright,  experienced  in  my  boyhood — how  a  wild 
and  mischief-loving  cousin,  robed  from  "  top  to  toe  " 
in  deathly  white  suddenly  crossed 

A  startling,  reverberating  clang  brought  me  sud 
denly  to  my  feet.  It  proved  to  be  the  poker, 
dropped  from  my  relaxing  grasp,  as  from  dreaming 
I  had  begun  falling  away  into  slumber.  With  a 
laugh  and  a  shake  I  drew  the  chair  nearer  the 
hearth,  and  then  slowly  and  drowsily  fell  back  into 
its  comfortable  depths  again.  As  my  head  touched 
its  cushioned  rest,  my  eyes  instinctively  sought  the 
little  toilet  glass — sought  it,  and  were  held  fixed  to 
the  polished  surface  spell-bound. 

Behind  my  chair  I  clearly  and  distinctly  saw  a 
huge  mirror  slowly  rise  until  it  nearly  reached  the 
ceiling.  Its  whole  surface  was  accurately  reflected 
in  the  miniature  glass  upon  the  mantel,  into  which 
I  was  looking.  A  mist  seemed  to  shroud  the  sur- 
2* 


34  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

face,  through  which  dim  figures  appeared  to  flit 
and  commingle.  But  suddenly,  as  if  by  magic,  the 
misty  veil  vanished — and  a  scene  appeared. 

In  the  first  impulse  I  would  have  sprung  from  my 
chair,  but  some  mystic  power  transfixed  me  to  the 
floor.  I  tried  to  turn  upon  the  mysterious  mirror, 
but  my  gaze  was  held  fastened  to  the  glass  before 
me. 

For  the  scene  was  a  life — the  life  mine ! 

It  was  a  vista,  a  long  backward  vista, — back  to 
early  manhood,  back  to  youth,  back  to  boyhood — 
crossed  by  many  lights  and  shadows — but  ah,  sun 
shine  too  little — cloud  too  much  ! 

There,  in  one  single  vast  glance,  my  whole  career 
was  revealed — all  the  emotions  I  had  ever  known, 
the  ambitions  I  had  ever  cherished,  the  stern 
realities  against  which  my  spirit  had  been  broken 
— all  as  sharp  and  as  clear  as  a  memory  of  yester 
day.  Boyhood  in  its  unbroken  belief  in  the  glories 
of  a  future  ;  youth  with  its  aspirations,  ambitions, 
its  vague  yearnings  so  incomprehensible,  its  grand 
dreams  never,  never  to  be  realized ;  manhood,  with 
its  fierce  struggles,  its  poor  triumphs,  and  worst 
of  all  that  appertains  to  manhood,  the  daily  burst 
ing  of  the  fond  bubbles  so  industriously  blown  in 
youth ! 

The  vista  appeared    to  lead    from    myself.      I 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  35 

seemed  in  my  own  person  and  state  the  consumma 
tion  of  the  story  thus  visioned  in  that  strange 
mirror.  There,  lonely,  grey,  wrinkled,  unloved,  un 
known — in  the  glass  before  me  I  saw  my  own  figure, 
the  startling  moral  to  the  picture — all  the  ambitions 
so  earnest,  the  hopes  so  big,  the  promises  so  loud, 
the  expectations  so  large — ending  in  nothing  but  me ! 

I  shrunk  from  this  truth,  but  it  sternly  forced 
itself  upon  my  soul.  I  hunted  up  and  down  the 
vista  for  justification  of  this  pitiful  fulfillment  of  all 
the  huge  promises  of  youth,  but  I  could  only  see 
opportunities  slighted — means  neglected — the  golden 
bowl  heedlessly  broken. 

There  was  boyhood,  sharp  and  clear,  like  a  thing 
of  yesterday  ;  my  early  home,  my  mother's  kiss,  my 
sister's  entwining  arms — those  tender  scenes,  whose 
memory  at  times  has  almost  new-made  me.  Ah, 
from  that  placid  spring  opening  of  the  Yista,  to 
turn  my  eyes  to  the  stricken  winter  at  the  end  ! 

Back,  almost  to  boyhood,  was  a  bower. 

Mad  moment,  mad  passions,  besotted  hour,  why 
must  you  be  recalled  ?  Two  childish,  once  happy, 
lovers,  tearing  from  their  hearts  peace  and  love, — 
torn  flowers,  tears,  anger,  selfish  cruelty, — love 
driven  out,  and  only  the  dark-winged  brooding 
Passion  in  its  stead.  Love  never  recalled,  bruised 
heart  never  well  ! 


36  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

And  then  in  youth,  self-indulgence  seductively  the 
master  ;  friendships  sharply  severed  ;  wise  counsels 
scorned  ;  precipitate  will  and  huge  egotism  digging 
pits  and  falls. 

In  manhood,  the  trampling  down  of  the  flowers 
and  home-growths  of  boyhood — the  proud  head  in 
the  air,  but  the  stumbling  feet. 

I  longed  to  look  elsewhere.  I  almost  prayed  for 
some  power  to  extinguish  memory.  There  were  my 
early  pledges  of  greatness  to  be  accomplished,  and 
good  to  be  performed,  sharply  lettered,  and  seem 
ingly  pointing  towards  me  ;  there  were  the  very 
occasions  where  I  had  turned  from  the  high  roads 
of  duty  and  honor,  to  follow  low  desires  ;  there  the 
very  temptations,  so  mean  and  pitiful  to  this  after 
gaze,  to  which  I  had  so  often  yielded. 

Remorse  cuts  sharp.  No  one  perhaps  could  see 
his  Past,  suddenly  in  a  panoramic  whole,  reproduced 
to  his  sense  and  judgment,  and  not  feel  ten  thousand 
blades  in  his  conscience.  Few  have  been  good  and 
wise  enough  to  review  their  career  with  utter  placid- 
ness.  Yet  most  men  can  point  to  something  accom 
plished — fruit  has  matured  upon  their  boughs  whose 
taste  is  sweet.  But  not  with  me.  With  more  than 
average  expectations  I  had  attained  far  less  than 
average  results. 

And  yet  some  bitter  circumstances  of  my  state 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  37 

excited  pity  rather  than  condemnation.  Alone  and 
unloved — not  these  my  crimes,  assuredly. 

I  had  loved  more  than  once — early  and  late — 
with  spring's  buoyant  flush,  with  autumn's  deep  and 
mellowed  feeling.  With  passionate  regret  my  eyes 
lingered  upon  these  brief,  sweet,  hallowed  scenes,  in 
which  were  crowded  everything  of  my  life  worth 
experiencing  or  worth  remembering.  Each,  it  is 
true,  had  been  unblessed,  but  what  moments  of  huge, 
measureless  bliss  this  dream  of  them  recalled.  That 
of  youth  I  had  recklessly  dashed  from  my  lips  ;  the 
other,  years,  many  years  later,  was  a  heart  passion 
ate,  despairing,  beating  itself  against  invulnerable 
bars — a  wish  that  often  as  it  winged,  fell  downward 
to  the  earth  ;  a  desire  chained  to  a  rock,  plucked 
back  by  cruel  links  as  often  as  it  struggled  to 
rise. 

While  I  looked  upon  the  Yista,  lingering  upon 
the  tender  memories,  shivering  before  those  that 
reproached  me,  I  grew  desirous  to  read  the  Future 
as  well  as  the  Past. 

"  Let  me  behold,"  I  exclaimed  aloud — the  first 
words  my  lips  had  been  able  to  utter  since  the  spell 
seized  me.  Almost  instantaneously  with  the  utter 
ance  the  Yista  vanished,  and  a  mist  covered  the  sur 
face  of  the  mirror.  My  senses  grew  eager  now,  and 
I  strained  my  eyes  with  all  my  might.  The  mist 


38  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

gradually  lifted — a  bleak,  barren  plain,  dim  and 
indistinct,  seemed  to  grow  slowly  out  upon  the 
shadowy  surface  of  the  mirror — and  nothing  else. 
I  bent  forward,  and  fixed  my  eyes  upon  the  glass  on 
the  mantel  with  eagerness  intense  and  hushed — 
when  suddenly  a  crash — the  mirror  appeared  shiv 
ered  into  myriads  of  pieces — a  cold  blast  struck  me — 

On  the  floor,  before  the  hearth,  I  suddenly  found 
myself,  fallen  from  my  chair,  the  candle  flickering  in 
the  last  struggle  of  its  existence,  the  fire  gone  out, 
and  a  chill  striking  me  to  the  bones. 

I  stood  up  and  stretched  out  my  arms  as  if  to 
grasp  the  shadows  that  had  haunted  me.  The  cold, 
barren  room,  dimly  visible  in  the  uncertain  light, 
was  like  an  angular  fact  rudely  thrust  into  the  at 
mosphere  of  the  dream.  Its  unimpressible  rigidity, 
with  the  hard  outline  of  every  object  cutting  into 
the  empty  midnight  air — the  chairs,  the  tables,  the 
book-cases  looming  up  so  stern  and  grim,  like  inex 
orable  and  conscious  facts — preternaturally  sharp 
ened  my  senses,  and  while  they  drove  the  shadows 
of  the  dream  from  my  brain,  the  more  indelibly 
stamped  its  truth  and  moral. 

With  my  head  upon  my  breast,  and  a  humble 
step,  I  walked  silently  away  to  bed. 


III. 

I  tell  my  dream  to  Maggie,  philosophize  thereupon, 
and  freely  branch  into  new  fields  of  discussion — An 
audacious  assertion  implying  the  Pythagorean  multiple 
of  Hamlets — Nothing  is  but  what  is  not,  and  certain 
prophecies,  which  it  is  to  be  hoped  will  prove  false — A 
new  creed — An  authentic  portrait  warranted  to  be  like. 


39 


III. 

I  TOLD  my  dream  to  Maggie — and  yet  not  all. 
There  are  some  corners  of  the  human  heart 
which  shrink  np  and  shut  in  their  secrets  at  every 
touch,  however  tender,  friendly  or  loving.  Maggie 
shall  not  enter  into  forbidden  memories,  nor  know  all 
that  lies  behind  my  fiftieth  winter.  There  shall 
mingle  in  her  respect  for  me  something  of  mystery, 
and  by  that  token  I  will  hold  her  off  from  any  fa 
miliar  knowledge  that  may  breed  commonplaces  be 
tween  us. 

To  the  world  I  can  be  as  free  in  unfolding  my 
emotions,  my  memories,  and  my  weaknesses  as  I 
choose — for  the  world  to  me  and  I  to  the  world  are 
only  abstractions.  While  I  would  shrink  from  a 
single  pair  of  eyes  like  Maggie's,  resting,  for  ever  so 
briefly,  on  my  scars  and  wounds,  I  may  dwell  upon 
them  within  the  gaze  of  the  whole  world  with  serene 
unconsciousness.  For  every  reader  who  reads  me 
perceives  in  my  analysis  of  feeling  and  suffering,  not 
me  but  himself.  I  am  only  to  him  a  vague  double, 

41 


42  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

a  shape  which  he  clothes  with  his  own  lineaments,  in 
whose  exposed  heart  he  recognizes  only  the  reflection 
of  the  secret  passions  concealed  in  his  own.  Therein 
lie  my  immunity  and  my  extenuation.  I  may  talk  of 
myself  forever,  of  what  I  suffer,  what  I  feel,  what  I 
dream  ;  of  hope,  ambition,  love,  and  all  the  warm 
phantoms  of  feeling  that  crowd  upon  the  hearts  of 
men,  and  still  am  guilty  of  no  indelicacy,  guilty  of 
no  more  egotism  than  those  who  read  this  book — 
for  it  is  only  a  voice  that  speaks,  an  experience  find 
ing  utterance,  which  every  man  calls  his  own. 

Something  of  this  I  said  to  Maggie.  I  am  not 
sure  that  she  could  understand  it,  but  I  never  sim 
plify  my  thoughts,  nor  reduce  my  language  to  her  ex 
perience.  She  must  clamber  up  to  my  meaning,  and 
get  what  glimpses  she  can.  Under  my  tuition  she 
shall  acquire  the  strength  for  a  long  flight  by  early 
learning  to  use  her  wings. 

And  let  me  say  to  all  thinkers,  who  fire  above  the 
heads  of  the  people — let  them  be  true  to  their  mark, 
for  the  stature  of  the  general  mind  will  gradually 
grow  to  the  level  of  their  ami ;  unless,  indeed,  the 
thinker's  aim  rises  with  the  universal  "  progress  " — 
for  those  internal  forces  that  lift  the  plains  nearer  to 
the  heavens,  lift  the  mountains  too. 

But  all  this  tune,  Maggie,  in  her  chosen  place  by 
the  fire,  has  been  buried  in  a  book. 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  43 

Buried  in  a  book  !  What  queer  idioms  we  get 
into  to  be  sure  !  It  is  a  spiritual  interment,  possibly, 
and  yet  the  expression  is  more  aptly  true  of  the  au 
thor  than  the  reader.  How  many  a  writer  has 
poured  out  his  life  upon  the  page — literally  flung  his 
vitality  into  his  thoughts,  and  woven  his  breath  into 
the  frame-work  of  his  sentences?  Thoughts  that 
burn  feed  upon  the  fuel  of  being  ;  there  is  many  a 
life-pulse  subtly  fused  in  a  rhythmic  line  ;  the  pen  digs 
sure  graves. 

"  Maggie,  what  do  you  read  ?" 

Maggie  looked  up  quickly.  The  fire-light  was 
burning  upon  her  cheek  ;  shadows  were  in  her  eyes  ; 
upon  her  head  a  broad  ribbon-like  glow.  The  pic 
ture  was  mellow  and  pretty. 

"  Hamlet,"  said  she. 

"  Ah  !     And  you  like  it  ?» 

"  No,  sir."    And  she  began  to  read  on. 

"  Don't  like  it  ?" 

"It  is  so  terrible.  Ghostly  too  !  and  murders  1 
and  funerals  !  and  graves  !"  She  visibly  shuddered. 

"Now  here,  Maggie,"  said  I,  "is  an  odd  error  hi 
judgment.  You  do  like  it.  The  very  words  you  use 
in  condemnation  are  proof  that  I  am  right.  You 
read  it  with  eagerness-— for  I  have  watched  you. 
You  tremble  and  shudder,  but  are  fascinated." 

"  Why  should  I  like  terrible  things  ?" 


44  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

"Why?  You  are  puzzled,  as  philosophers  are. 
Some  of  them  will  try  to  explain  to  you  why,  and 
drift  sadly  from  the  subject.  It  is  a  mystery  of  our 
nature,  Maggie  ;  we  all  like  emotions  of  terror,  of 
grief,  of  awe ;  we  like  them  through  the  delicate 
semi-robing  of  noble  poetry,  and  like  them  sometimes 
in  the  hard  and  vivid  reality." 

"  I  cannot  understand  it,  sir." 

"  Never  doubt  the  genuineness  of  a  taste  because 
it  is  incomprehensible.  Trust  to  nature.  The  soul 
of  man,  Mag,  is  rich  in  functions,  marvellously  vari 
ous  in  appetites  and  desires,  and  each  faculty  hun 
gers  for  its  own  especial  sustenance.  But  its  owner 
is  a  fool.  He  can  only  look  one  way,  and  starves 
his  soul  into  a  skeleton  with  his  hopeless  efforts  to 
feed  it  through  one  channel.  I  tell  you,  Maggie, 
we  must  have  poetry  for  our  imagination,  humor  for 
our  mirth,  approval  for  our  approbativeness,  philoso 
phy  for  our  reason,  color  for  our  eye,  beauty  for  our 
taste,  aims  for  our  energies,  music  for  our  ear  ;  form, 
life,  motion,  speech,  pathos,  sadness,  wit — all  emo 
tions  and  sensations  for  the  thousand  functions  to 
which  they  apply.  We  should  live  in  the  light ; 
open  our  souls  to  the  passing  breezes ;  catch  upon 
the  surface  of  life  all  pure  and  true  things. 

"  Not  morbid  passion,  which  to  the  true  sublimities 
is  as  disease  to  health.  Enjoy  heartily  and  well :  be 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  45 

no  brooder  over  your  own  sensations.  Self  is  a 
danger  always.  Look  abroad,  not  within." 

"  Was  Hamlet  mad,  sir." 

"  Mad,  but  with  a  human  madness  such  as  lies 
deep  hi  us  all ;  the  madness  that  you  and  I  possess, 
and  all  who  feel  much — ready  always  for  a  spark  to 
ignite.  Heaven  !  shall  spirits  play  upon  the  suffer 
ing  and  melancholy  that  I  have  in  my  heart  and 
which  sometimes,  as  it  is,  rise  like  waves  that  ingulf, 
and  topple  not  from  its  balance  the  thing  I  call  rea 
son?  Grief  has  ere  this  so  sharpened  sensibility, 
that  in  the  acute  agony  of  suffering  I  have  put  an 
antic  disposition  on  ;  words,  light  and  wild,  have 
broken  in  bubbles  from  the  deep  shaft  of  feeling 
piercing  downward,  and  in  the  very  choke  of  tears 
I  have  burst  into  merry  '  hillos.' 

"For  the  things  we  love  most,  tender  words  are 
too  weak.  We  rebound  from  their  calm,  placid  sur 
face,  and  seize  instead  those  rough,  strong  opposites, 
in  which  intensity  and  energy  are  expressed.  Their 
meaning  is  at  variance  with  our  feeling,  but  our  vig 
orous  love  needs  vigorous  symbols.  It  is  so  with 
other  passions.  They  rush  to  their  opposites  in  de 
spair  of  adequate  expression.  The  gibe  and  jest  grin 
on  the  brink  of  dark  pools  ;  jocund  mirth  sits  upon 
the  brim  of  the  poisoned  cup  ;  passion  wreathes 
laughter  into  its  wildest  and  shrillest  utterance. 


46  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

"I  am  Hamlet ;  and  all  men  in  whom  mingle 
those  two  currents  of  philosophy  and  imagination, 
are  Hamlets  :  for  the  Dane  is  a  representative  man 
— and  such  as  we  can  understand  how  the  light  of 
his  mind  burned  clearly,  even  while  his  frenzy  of  feel 
ing  rushed  into  wild  words  and  antic  disposition." 

"  Poor  Ophelia  1"  murmured  Maggie. 

"  Ah,  sweet,  tender,  gentle,  lovable  Ophelia  ! 
Mighty  master  who  limned  her,  too — who  knew  that 
a  huge  imagination  like  Hamlet's  would  be  sure  to 
fly  to  a  magnetism  like  hers.  Inscrutable  truth  of 
nature  !  Your  men  of  the  highest  reach  always 
stoop  to  pluck  the  daisy." 

"  You  call  Shakspeare  mighty.  Was  he  so  very 
great,  sir  ?" 

"  I  reply  in  the  briefest  and  finest  eulogy  ever 
written  of  him.  '  If  I  were  to  prepare  a  dictionary,' 
says  the  scholar  in  Buckstone's  comedy,  '  I'd  add  a 
new  word — Shakspeare — and  define  it  as  poetry,  art, 
and  nature  /' " 

"  Do  not  some  people  say  that  he  didn't  write  his 
plays  ?" 

"  Yes.  Nothing  is  but  what  is  not,  are  his  own 
words — a  line  I  never  could  understand  until  I  read 
the  different  doubters,  from  Bishop  Berkeley  down. 
But  the  world  is  tortured  by  those  who  magnify  and 
those  who  destroy ;  pyramid  builders  who  ravage 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  47 

the  plains  that  their  temples  may  be  glorified  ;  icono 
clasts  who  break  up  every  image  niched  in  your 
heart.  The  first  have  deified  Shakspeare  up  into  the 
clouds,  topping  Olympus  itself,  and  others  not  un 
naturally  have  attempted  to  pull  him  down  to  earth. 
These  latter  appear  to  distrust  the  individualization 
of  any  fame,  and  in  every  evidence  of  singular  great 
ness,  become  inspired  with  a  desire  to  discrown  the 
individual,  and  trace  the  cause  home  to  some  ab 
straction — to  throw  it  back  to  a  mystic  generaliza 
tion.  And  after  all,  are  those  wonderful  dramas 
his  ?  Is  any  man's  book  his  own  ?  Is  any  thought 
I  utter  mine  ?  Individuals  do  not  create  nor  origi 
nate  ;  mankind  does  both.  We  are  each  of  us  a  leaf 
in  the  human  forest — singly  an  infinitesimal  nothing, 
but  as  a  whole  how  magnificent  1  What  we  accom 
plish  is  in  aggregation.  Great  men  are  only  the 
capitals  to  the  pillars — the  last  completeness  and 
exposition  of  the  work  that  thousands  have  con 
spired  to  erect ;  or,  to  use  another  illustration,  great 
men  are  forced  upon  the  shoulders  of  their  contem 
poraries — the  elevation  which  men  see  from  afar, 
which  they  crown  and  glorify,  but  the  forces  that 
lift  them  up  are  underneath.  The  so  considered  giants 
in  every  science  are  merely  those  who  bring  a  thought 
suddenly  to  light.  It  is  new  to  the  world,  but  the  seed 
has  long  been  germinating — unseen  and  unheeded. 


48  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

"  Take  the  steam  engine.  How  many  thousand 
minds,  how  many  thousand  experiences,  how  vast  an 
aggregation  of  intellect  has  been  employed  in  bring 
ing  it  to  its  present  perfection — and  yet  we  associate 
with  it  only  the  name  of  Fulton. 

"  Take  the  most  original  book.  Ten  thousand 
minds  have  contributed  to  the  art  which  constructs 
it,  to  the  thoughts  which  animate  it,  to  the  graces 
of  expression  in  which  it  is  clothed. 

"  The  world  is  a  gallery  lined  with  looking-glasses. 
A  single  ray  is  admitted — it  is  multiplied  in  reflec 
tion  by  thousands  of  surfaces,  until  perfect  light  is 
attained. 

"  Discoveries  are  the  matured  growths  of  the  age. 
The  world  has  progressed  to  the  point  when  the 
fruit  is  ripe — one,  more  wise  than  the  rest,  steps  for 
ward,  shakes  the  tree,  and  gathers  in  the  harvest. 
This  is  evident  in  the  fact  that  great  discoveries  are 
almost  always  simultaneous  in  different  places. 

"But  I  perceive  no  greatness  in  the  future  for  any 
man.  I  am  a  prophet,  and  looking  in  the  crystal 
wherein  I  descry  all  things." 

"  The  crystal  ?" 

"  My  imagination,  Magi  There  I  see  an  ocean 
of  universal  intelligence  rising  up  and  burying  us  all 
in  a  startling  monotonous  level — a  dead  plain  of  dull 
and  wearisome  equality. 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  49 

"  Individuals  are  to  become  nothing.  In  the  past 
they  have  been  magnified.  In  the  future  they  will 
be  utterly  decimated.  Results  and  abstractions  are 
to  be  the  heroes  of  the  future,  Look  at  war,  even 
as  it  is  now.  It  was  once  a  splendid  record  of  indi 
vidual  prowess  ;  it  told  of  the  might  and  valor  of 
Richard,  of  Godfrey,  of  Raymond,  of  Bayard.  It  is 
now  an  affair  of  infernal  machines,  of  gigantic  bat 
teries,  gunpowder,  bombs,  and  the  like.  Very  pretty 
fireworks,  no  doubt ;  but  the  thousands  of  wretches 
whose  souls  fly  upward  through  the  smoke  and  fire, 
have  no  compensation  either  in  song  or  history.  They 
are  known  only  arithmetically — as  so  many  thousand 
slain,  and  have  their  place  in  tabular  figures,  amid 
bayonets,  hams,  potatoes,  tobacco — a  part  of  the 
supplies  and  cost,  nothing  more. 

"  In  science  and  art  we  shall  see  the  same  thing — 
the  sinking  of  the  individual — a  falling  back  into  the 
ranks — a  more  splendid  consummation  by  union — a 
principle  of  aggregation  in  opposition  to  segregation 
— a  sort  of  united  we  stand,  divided  we  fall,  by  which 
result  will  be  greater,  but  individual  recognition  less. 
For  instance,  the  tune  will  come,  I  have  no  doubt, 
when  a  picture  will  be  painted  by  twenty  men, 
instead  of  one.  One  will  paint  the  face,  another 
the  drapery,  a  third  the-  foliage,  and  so  on. 
A  like  combination  in  the  production  of  books 
3 


50  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

will  give  that  higher  perfection  which  the  world 
demands.  I  tell  you,  Mag,  the  world — by  which 
term  I  simply  mean  everybody  else — is  getting  hugely 
selfish,  and  it  will  soon  cease  to  care  a  fig  who  is  who 
— so  long  as  its  appetites  and  wants  are  supplied  up 
to  the  high  standard  its  fastidiousness  demands. 

"  In  a  hundred  years  from  this  time,  we  shall  have 
the  most  consummate  machinery,  the  most  perfect 
government — which,  to  secure,  must  be  a  matter  of 
mechanism — the  highest  philosophy — the  greatest 
perfection  in  every  branch  of  human  effort — a  race 
of  workers  in  a  vast  hive,  each  busy  only  to  a  com 
mon  end — all  things  upon  a  level,  but  freezingly 
clear,  monotonously  perfect,  unendurably  admirable 
— with  no  idiosyncrasy,  individuality,  or  undulating 
variety  ;  a  smooth  and  unbearable  perfection  which 
repels  me  to  think  of." 

"  But  did  you  not  say,"  interposed  Maggie,  "  that 
those  internal  forces  which  lift  the  plains  nearer  to 
the  heavens,  lift  the  mountains,  too  ?" 

"  Maggie,"  said  I,  in  a  tone  much  hurt,  "  your  re 
mark  is  preposterous.  Are  you  so  green  as  to  exact 
consistency  ?  That  is  a  merit,  if  a  merit,  which  I 
leave  to  the  ordinary  mind.  Every  subject  is  octa 
gonal — or  many-sided — and  I  bless  myself  that  I  have 
the  faculty  of  looking  at  matters  in  all  their  aspects. 
Can  there  be  two,  ten,  or  twenty  honest  opinions 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  $1 

upon  any  subject  ?  Then  I  have  a  pliancy  of  imagi 
nation  which  can  entertain  them  all.  Hear  my 
creed  : 

"  In  ethics,  monogamy  ;  in  aesthetics,  polygamy." 

Maggie  looked  so  bewildered  that,  unlike  my 
usual  course,  I  proceeded  to  explain  : 

"  In  my  morals,  Maggie,  I  am  faithful  to  a  single 
principle  ;  but  in  other  matters  I  am  a  Turk,  and 
shall  wed  as  many  opinions  as  I  please.  There  is  a 
picture  hanging  in  yonder  panel.  Tell  me  what 
it  is." 

"  A  groom  leading  a  horse." 

"  Which  way  does  he  approach  ?" 

"  This  way,  sir." 

"  JS"ow  cross  the  room.  Look  at  the  picture  from 
the  other  side.  What  do  you  see  ?" 

"  Why,  the  man  and  horse  appear  to  come  this 
way  now." 

"  The  artist's  cunning,  Maggie.  Every  subject  is 
like  that  picture,  and  opinion  merely  a  matter  of 
standpoint.  To  adhere  to  one  view  is  nothing  but 
perversity.  It  is  for  me  to  say  that  the  groom  and 
the  horse  come  my  way,  and  not  yours — whereas  we 
are  both  right,  and  I  have  only  to  shift  my  position 
a  little,  to  see  them  as  you  do  now.  It  is  a  one-sided 
imagination,  that  can  only  look  one  way,  that  cannot 
place  itself  in  various  positions,  accommodating  itself 


52  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

to  the  prejudices,  idiosyncrasies,  habits,  tastes,  and 
modes  of  thoughts  of  other  imaginations — that  can 
not  perceive  how  narrow,  after  all,  is  the  line  which 
divides  all  opinion,  and  how  easy  to  cross  that  line. 

"  I  am,  you  know,  a  broker  of  opinions.  I  trade 
with  them  ;  gather  in  what  is  curious ;  speculate 
upon  them.  Or,  what  may  be  a  better  illustration, 
I  am  a  rag-gatherer,  searching  after  the  valuable,  or 
the  new,  or  the  curious,  in  the  refuse  the  world  leaves 
in  its  highways.  I  turn  over  and  shake  out  what  I 
find.  One  has  a  rent  ;  another  has  proved  valueless 
by  wear  ;  another  is  hopelessly  tangled  and  snarled  ; 
a  fourth  is  ragged  ;  a  fifth,  shapeless  and  contempti 
ble  at  the  beginning,  has  been  begrimed  and  fouled 
by  long  use,  at  the  hands  of  demagogues  and  hypo 
crites.  And  these  rags  I  amuse  myself,  by  holding 
up  in  various  lights.  How  fantastic  in  form,  capri 
cious  in  color,  preposterous  in  conception  many  of 
them  are — and  yet,  not  one  but  in  the  web  and  woof 
is  woven  some  groundwork  of  truth — and  but  few  that 
I  cannot  fling  my  imagination  into  the  circumstances 
which  created  them,  and  think  for  a  brief  moment  in 
the  same  way  too. 

"  I  draw  flattering  consolation  and  a  grand  exam 
ple  from  nature.  Perfect  light,  like  that  of  the  sun, 
is  the  composite  of  all  color.  It  is  only  when  its  rays 
are  distorted  through  the  lenses  of  angular  imagina- 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  53 

tions,  that  it  breaks  into  parallel  and  unblending 
tints. 

"  From  the  sun,  the  monarch  of  nature,  let  me 
drop  to  an  absurd  extreme  for  another  illustration. 
Every  opinion  is  a  plum-pudding,  and  the  plums  are 
the  few  grains  of  truth.  You  and  I,  Maggie,  shall 
pick  them  out." 

I  paused,  and  Maggie  fell  away  into  a  dream. 

What  was  it  ?  Maggie  has  strange,  vehement 
thoughts  at  times.  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  it. 
Around  her  brain  is  coiled  that  circle  of  fire  which 
inflames  and  sometimes  maddens  unresting  spirits — 
those  quickened  natures  whom  we  all  recognize  as 
children  of  genius.  Maggie  has  a  brow  wide  and 
bulging,  but  not  high  ;  a  pale,  thin  face  underneath  ; 
a  delicate,  quivering  nostril,  a  mouth  firm  but  full. 
Her  eyes  are  dark,  deep — not  vivid  nor  brilliant, 
but  with  a  glance  of  slumbering  fire.  They  have  a 
hungry  look — a  searching,  eager  expression,  as  if 
hunting  for  sympathy  not  yet  vouchsafed.  There  is 
sometimes  the  unpleasant  effect  of  a  stare,  but  that 
is  when  the  soul  behind  unconsciously  wanders  in  its 
fancies,  or  drops  away  into  some  absorbing  day 
dream,  and  leaves  the  casement  uncurtained  and 
open  to  the  day.  Wild  elfish  locks,  black,  tangled, 
and  heavy,  hang  down  over  her  brow  and  cheeks. 
Her  figure  is  slight,  her  movements  sharp,  vehement, 


54  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

and  often  vibrative  to  passions  and  impulses  that 
never  find  voice.  She  talks  little,  but  she  seems 
hushed  in  the  silent  awe  of  over-crowding  thoughts 
— vague,  shadowy,  looming  thoughts,  which  express 
ion  cannot  measure  nor  compass.  Ignorance,  dull 
association,  and  the  need  of  fructifying  sympathy, 
have  all  conspired  to  crowd  her  sensibilities  inward, 
and  gnarl  and  knot  them  in  their  growth.  The  forces 
of  her  intellect  find  expression,  therefore,  through  un 
usual  channels.  The  subjective  becomes  fantastically 
objective.  Flashes  of  thought  or  of  feeling,  which  in 
others  would  explode  in  words,  in  her  rush  into  oddi 
ties  and  impulses  of  action  and  movement.  I  have 
seen  her,  in  spasms  of  emotion,  toss  her  arms  about 
like  the  limbs  of  a  tree  in  the  wind.  She  has  fre 
quently  burst  into  my  presence  flushed  and  exhausted 
from  some  violent  exertion — a  race  over  the  fields 
with  her  pursuing  fancies,  or  a  mad  scamper  through 
the  forest  with  ten  thousand  imps  of  the  brain,  prick 
ing,  spurring,  goading  her  on  ;  for  by  violence  of 
muscle  the  violence  of  passion  is  often  cured. 

I  sat  watching  Maggie,  and  thinking  of  these 
things,  when  I  observed  one  of  those  quick  impetu 
ous  movements  so  habitually  expressive  of  her  earnest 
thinking.  But  this  tune  she  gave  her  thought  words. 

"  You  say  that  men  of  the  highest  reach  always 
stoop  to  pluck  the  daisy.  Why  ?  why  ?" 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  55 

"  So,  so  !  that  way  tend  your  thoughts,  daughter 
of  Eve  !"  This  comment  I  solaced  myself  with 
apart,  and  then  I  spoke  aloud. 

"  Why,  Maggie,  your  thoughts  fly  backward.  It 
is  an  hour  since  I  made  that  remark." 

"  But  what  am  I,  sir  ?    Not  a  daisy  ?" 

"  No." 

"  And  yet " — she  stopped  short. 

"  You  admire  greatness,  you  worship  greatness, 
you  are  awe-struck  now  at  the  grandeur  with  which 
your  imagination  has  invested  it — but  take  my  word, 
Maggie,  you  will  marry  Ike." 

"  Ike  !"  a  splendid  flush  of  indignation  rose  to  her 
cheek. 

"  Ike.  The  charge  is  audacious,  but  I  repeat  it. 
If  one  came  now  across  your  way  with  the  step  of 
a  god,  with  the  air  and  movement  of  majesty ;  an 
eye  to  subdue,  a  knowledge  perfect,  an  intellect 
great  in  every  function,  weak  in  none,  with  a  will 
absolute  and  unyielding,  and  a  character  so  domi 
nant  and  controlling  that  it  moulded  yours  plastic  to 
its  own  stamp — to  such  a  one  you  would  crawl  up 
and  kneel  down  in  homage.  In  the  atmosphere  of 
such  a  man  you  would  breathe  new  life.  It  would 
be  your  happiness  to  serve,  to  be  meek,  to  watch  with 
wistful  eyes  apart,  to  turn  always  towards  him  a 
worshipping  upward  look,  as  the  sunflower  follows 


56  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

the  sun.  But  to  greatness  less  than  this,  you  would 
clamber  up,  find  out  its  weak  places,  and  then  turn 
disdainfully  away  from  an  image  that  proved  to  be 
only  of  clay.  All  emotions  and  all  passions  are  in 
circles.  You  would  rebound  to  the  extreme  ;  find 
ing  none  to  worship,  you  would  quickly  shift  your 
ground  and  exact  instead  a  worship  rendered  up  to 
you.  This  is  written  in  the  histories  of  many  wo 
men.  From  the  admiration  once  passionately  in 
tended  for  others,  they  fly  eagerly  to  the  companion 
ship  of  simple  receptive  natures,  pliant  to  their  will, 
and  eager  to  do  them  homage." 

"  I  am  not  convinced,"  said  Maggie,  abruptly  but 
quietly.  "  Ike  is  a  fool.  He  never  talks  to  me,  nor 
I  to  him.  He  brings  me  flowers,  and  I  burn  them 
up.  I  do  not  like  him  at  all.  It  makes  me  angry 
to  hear  you  say  I  do." 

"  Will,  Maggie." 

"  Why,  sir,  he's  a  little  boy." 

"  I  am  good  at  a  guess,  Maggie,  and  I  venture  to 
surmise  that  Ike,  like  most  other  boys,  is  not  doomed 
to  an  existence  of  perpetual  roundabouts." 


IV. 

An  adventure — An  old  man's  story. 


3*  57 


IV. 


44  ~iy/r  AGGIE,  to-day  I  had  an  adventure." 

_1>J_     "  What  was  it,  sir  ?" 

"  You  shall  hear.  The  day  was  so  soft  and  mel 
low  with  the  Indian  haze,  that  with  basket  and  reel 
I  wandered  several  miles  up  the  banks  of  the  stream, 
and  flung  my  line  in  some  pools  a  little  way  below 
the  old  mill,  to  which,  you  recollect,  we  once  rambled 
in  the  summer  time.  There,  where  the  hum  of  the 
mill  came  faintly  and  pleasantly  down  to  me,  with 
my  line  fallen  heedlessly  into  the  stream,  I  sat  for  an 
hour,  half  dreaming  and  idly  watching  the  rippling 
of  the  water  over  the  pebbles  in  the  shallow 
places. 

"  In  the  midst  of  a  reverie  I  was  aroused.  A  foot 
step  fell  upon  my  ear,  and  with  its  fall  scattering  to 
oblivion  certain  airy  nothings  my  vagrant  fancy  was 
weaving.  I  started  up  from  my  half  recumbent  po 
sition  and  looked  around.  An  old  man,  so  old  that 
he  tottered,  and  his  white  hair  hung  like  a  shock 

59 


60  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

around  his  ears,  and  his  ample  clothes  bagged  and 
flapped  about  his  thin  limbs — came  down  to  the 
bank  of  the  stream,  not  many  feet  from  where  I  lay, 
and  slowly,  by  the  aid  of  his  hickory  walking-stick, 
let  himself  down  upon  the  sod. 

"  I  watched  him  with  sympathy ;  for  he  had  a 
fine,  sad  face — a  manner  abstracted  and  melancholy; 
and  he  peered  and  felt  about  with  his  stick  as  if 
nearly  blind.  When  he  was  seated,  he  threw  off  his 
hat ;  a  great,  high,  wrinkled  brow  loomed  up,  and 
now  I  could  see  two  deep,  restless  eyes  under  white, 
shaggy,  overhanging  eyebrows. 

"  His  body  swayed  lightly  to  and  fro,  as  if  hia 
senses  were  rocked  in  a  dream.  Presently  he  clutched 
handfuls  of  grass,  and  flung  them  into  the  stream. 
They  came  drifting  slowly  by  me  in  the  current,  and 
one  mass  of  tangled  blades,  in  which  an  autumn 
blossom  was  interwoven,  shifted  into  an  eddy,  and 
was  borne  directly  to  my  feet.  I  reached  forward 
and  secured  the  flower,  beaded  and  glittering  with 
river  drops,  and  rising,  walked  up  to  the  old  man 
with  it  hi  my  hand. 

"  He  looked  up  nervously  as  I  came  near. 

"  '  So,'  said  he,  '  you've  got  it.  Why  could  sht 
not  have  been  saved  as  well  as  her  flower  ?  They 

were  both  upon  the  stream — she ' 

flung  upon  the  current  as  this  flower  was,' 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  61 

said  I,  '  torn  from  her  home,  from  life,  and  died  as 
this  poor  flower  must  die  ?' 

"  '  So  1  so  !'  muttered  he. 

"  '  You  have  a  terrible  memory  burning  in  your 
heart,  dear  sir — give  it  words,  and  it  will  lighten.' 

"  The  old  man  plucked  fresh  handfuls  of  grass, 
and  flung  them  into  the  current.  He  muttered  un 
intelligible  words,  but  wild  and  disconnected,  as  I 
thought.  I  seated  myself  by  his  side,  and  in  a  little 
time  so  won  upon  his  confidence,  that  with  trem 
bling  lips  and  many  silent  tears  he  related  me  this 
story : 

"  '  I  was  alone,  save  a  little  grand-daughter.  My 
sons  and  daughters  were  gone,  every  one  ;  my  friends 
were  in  the  graveyards,  or  far-off  places.  I  was 
alone  utterly,  with  my  beautiful  little  grand-daughter. 
She  always  seemed  to  me  a  little  child,  when  others 
told  me  she  was  a  woman.  Ah  1  she  must  have 
been  a  woman,  indeed,  for  she  loved — loved  so 
deeply,  so  despairingly — a  love  which,  even  when 
forsaken,  was  too  big  for  her  little  heart,  for  it 
broke  it. 

"  '  I  saw  them  together.  I  thought  of  no  danger, 
for  looking  down  from  my  far-off  age,  they  seemed 
so  like  little  children.  Hun  I  liked — yet  his  smile 
was  a  false  one — he  was  old  enough  to  be  a  villain 
— old  enough  to  play  the  frank,  careless,  dashing — 


62  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

old  enough  to  conceal  a  bad  nature  under  as  fair  an 
exterior  as  ever  I  saw. 

"  '  Why,  it  is  an  old  story.  I  can  see  now  that 
you  have  guessed  it  all.  An  old,old  story — repeated 
in  palace  and  hamlet,  in  busy  towns  and  quiet  fields 
— how  many  tunes  repeated  only  the  graveyards  can 
tell  when  they  reveal  their  buried  secrets. 

"  '  Do  not  be  too  fast.  There  was  no  crime — on 
her  part,  I  mean.  I  thank  God,  for  that.  She  was 
torn  up  and  cast  away,  but  died  pure  as  summer 
blossoms.  Her  story — the  old  story  repeated  for  its 
ten  thousandth  tune — was  the  story  of  love  aban 
doned — of  love  warmed  and  subtly  fanned  to  a  blaze 
by  cold  cunning,  and  patient  deceit — then  forsaken, 
then  trampled  and  crushed  into  the  dust  1 

"  '  He  was  skilled  in  the  craft  of  heart-winning. 
Grace,  beauty,  accomplishments,  genius — these,  with 
a  reckless  purpose  and  an  unprincipled  heart — making 
beauty  everywhere  his  desire,  and  too  often  the 
bound  captive  to  his  will. 

"  '  Well,  she  lived  awhile  in  his  smiles — fed  upon 
such  rapture  that  her  poor  little  heart  could  not  con 
tain  all  its  joy.  And  when  he  had  played  enough 
with  his  victim — had  found  her  in  virtue  superior  to 
his  craft — then,  one  day,  with  a  cold  word  he  left 
her — left  her,  and  never  came  back.  So  also  went 
from  her  cheek  roses  and  smiles,  never  more  to 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  63 

return.  Pale  and  stony-like  she  came  and  went — sad 
and  silent.  To  these  banks,  where  her  happiness 
had  dawned,  where  all  the  memories  of  her  love 
were  interwoven  with  every  tree  and  stone,  did  she 
come  and  weep,  and  moan — some  said  madly.  One 
day  she  came,  when  heavy  rains  had  swollen  this  lit 
tle  stream  until  it  spread  over  its  banks,  and  rolled 
along  its  course  high  and  angrily.  The  hours 
passed  by  and  I  watched  for  her  return.  She  did 
not  come.  I  followed  her,  trembling  with  appre 
hension  

"  '  Why  dwell  on  what  followed  ?  I  found  her 
body  a  mile  below ' 

"  '  Drowned  ?' 


(I   C 


:  Drowned  !  There  she  lay  caught  in  a  fallen 
willow.  Over  her  face  tangled  locks  and  ravaged 
leaves  had  woven  a  veil.  I  did  not  look  at  it — I 
dared  not — I  never  saw  it  again.' 

"  The  old  man  stopped,  and  slowly  pressed  two 
heavy  hands  to  his  brow.  Some  minutes  passed 
silently.  Then  I  spoke,  not  to  offer  consolation — 
for  grief  was  the  old  man's  friend — all  that  was 
left  to  him  of  her  or  of  the  past — but  I  spoke  to 
show  him  that  his  story  was  not  unheeded. 

"  '  The  poor  girl,  sir — her  name ' 

"  '  Her  name  ?  Ah  !  I  had  forgotten.  Your 
pardon,  sir.  Her  name  was  Beatrice.' 


64  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

"  Then,  Maggie,  I  sprang  npon  my  feet  and  al 
most  shrieked  aloud.  Beatrice  !  It  was  a  name 
sacred  to  me,  woven  with  a  thousand  memories  of 
that  stream,  more  deeply  loved  and  treasured  than 
any  name  in  the  wide  world.  It  could  not  be.  I 
impetuously  reiterated  the  question,  which  the  old 
man  did  not  hear,  but  kept  murmuringly  and  ten 
derly  repeating  the  fond,  fond  name. 

"Then  I  went  home  musing  deeply,  haunted 
by  the  old  man's  tale,  and  when  I  thought  of 
the  Beatrice  of  his  story  there  rose  up  before  me 
the  fair  lineaments  and  figure  of  my  Beatrice,  until 
the  two  became  so  identified,  that  around  my  story 
and  its  memories,  sad,  sad  enough,  there  hovered  an 
additional  poignancy,  as  if  she  whom  I  had  seen 
amid  those  scenes  had  let  her  spirit  out  upon  the 
waters  of  the  stream — had  floated  down  upon  the 
current  in  a  web  of  ravaged  leaves  and  flowers." 


V. 


Shady  Side  and  its  reminiscences — Love  under  green 
leaves — The  story  of  Beatrice. 


65 


V. 

( t  TT)  UT  who  was  Beatrice  ?"  inquired  Maggie. 

JD  "  To  you,  Maggie,  my  heart  is  an  open 
house.  Its  doors  stand  wide,  ;  day  lights  its  cham 
bers.  I  will  tell  you,  therefore,  of  Beatrice." 

"  You  know  my  favorite  resort— that  wooded, 
shadowy  bank  of  the  little  stream,  upon  which  I 
have  bestowed  the  name  of  Shady  Side.  There  in 
the  summer  days  I  loiter  in  its  rich  seclusion,  listen 
by  the  hour  to  the  carol  of  the  birds,  watch  the 
play  of  light  and  shadow  in  the  waving  tree  tops, 
look  down  upon  the  blue  waters  which  with  their 
musical  ripple  murmur  an  incessant  song  to  the 
flowers,  or  with  my  head  laid  on  some  '  antique 
root,'  stretch  my  gaze  through  the  green  canopy 
above  me,  into  the  far  blue  beyond,  while  my 
thoughts  mount,  expand,  traversing  worlds  celestial 
and  terrestrial.  I  fancy  myself,  you  know,  a  sound 
disciple  of  Izaak  Walton,  and  with  my  rod  and  reel 
hang  about  the  shores  of  the  little  stream,  flinging 
my  line  into  the  dark  pools  ;  and  in  half  revery,  idly 

6T 


68  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

watch  it  as  it  loosely  trails  upon  the  water.  Once 
while  seated  under  a  moss-bannered  oak,  and  thus 
dreamily  employed,  there  came  down  towards  me 
through  the  trees,  a  young  girl,  with  her  bonnet  on 
her  arm,  her  locks  lifted  and  floating  in  the  wind,  a 
bright  flush  upon  her  cheeks,  a  beautiful  light  in  her 
blue  eyes,  a  radiant  smile  upon  her  lips.  She  paused 
and  threw  up  her  hands  to  catch  a  pendant  bough. 
Her  white  arms  glanced  above  her  head,  her  white 
neck  shone  through  the  falling  tresses.  I  thought  it 
a  rarely  beautiful  picture  and  held  my  breath  to 
look.  Her  form  was  light  but  full  of  wonderful 
grace  ;  her  bust  was  outlined  with  delicate  fullness  ; 
her  limbs,  traceable  through  their  drapery,  seemed 
perfect  in  symmetry.  She  came  down  to  the  water, 
starting  as  she  saw  me,  and  blushing  with  beautiful 
confusion.  I  said  a  word  or  two  to  her,  and  she 
went  on  her  way. 

"  All  the  rest  of  that  day  I  found  myself  musing 
upon  this  beautiful  vision.  I  dreamed  of  her  at 
night,  and  awoke  thinking  of  her.  "We  met  again 
the  next  day,  and  after  that  many  times.  We 
came  to  know  each  other  well,  and  to  pass  hours 
together  upon  the  banks  of  Shady  Side.  Beatrice 
was  her  name.  She  was  the  only  child  of  a  gentle 
man,  a  widower,  who  had  come  up  from  town  to 
settle  amid  the  rural  beauties  of  our  neighborhood. 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  69 

She  was  very  fair,  trustful,  pure,  gentle,  loving — 
could  I  have  been  a  mortal  not  to  have  verged  upon 
the  flowery  precipice  ?  When  she  would  speak 
so  soft  and  low,  or  place  her  hand  in  mine,  or  look 
up  into  my  face  with  her  frank,  sweet  eyes,  or  play 
some  girlish  prank,  such  as  crowning  me  fantas 
tically  with  flowers  and  oak  garlands,  as  if  she  were 
Titania,  and  I  Bottom — could  I  help  the  bound  to 
my  heart,  and  the  strange  thrill  that  went  through 
it? 

But  I  did  penance  for  these  heart-bounds.  "  Hi, 
old  fellow,"  said  I,  "look  in  the  glass.  What  do 
you  see  there  ?  Is  there  a  face  for  sweet  sixteen  ? 
Look  at  the  crow-feet,  sir — at  the  furrows  and  the 
wrinkles,  and  the  hair  and  beard  already  pepper  and 
salt !  Is  that  a  face  for  beautiful  Beatrice  ?" 

I  winced  a  little,  but  rigorously  enforced  myself  to 
study  the  looking-glass  every  day. 

"  You're  old,  old  boy,  old  and  ugly,  too.  Your 
heart  is  choked  with  the  ashes  of  old,  dead  sensations ; 
it  has  burnt  out  its  fire  long  ago.  Shall  you  take  a 
withered  heart,  and  a  withered  face,  and  dead  hopes, 
and  sluggish  brain,  and  tainted  blood,  to  the  pure, 
fresh,  unstained  youth  of  Beatrice  ?  Out  upon  you, 
old  boy !  Don't  you  see  how  monstrous  the  thought 
is  ?  Look  close  in  the  looking-glass,  and  you  will 
see  it  fully.' 


70  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

"  This  plan  was  a  happy  one.  It  cured  me  of  all 
thoughts  of  loving  Beatrice,  and  kept  down  into  the 
recesses  of  my  heart  emotions  and  passions  that 
otherwise  would  have  struggled  up.  Occasionally, 
indeed,  at  some  word  of  hers,  or  some  sweet  caress — for 
we  grew  to  know  each  other  well  and  freely — my 
heart  would  rise  in  my  throat,  and  the  blood  run 
tingling  through  my  veins,  but  a  rigorous  course  of 
looking-glass  always  succeeded  hi  subduing  the  rebel 
lious  sentiment. 

"  Indeed,  I  grew  to  be  so  completely  a  master  of 
what  threatened  at  one  tune  to  be  a  mighty  passion, 
and  had  buried  my  love  so  deeply  in  my  bosom,  that 
I  listened  one  day  to  her  frank,  ingenuous  confession 
of  her  betrothal  to  another,  with  no  other  outward 
emotion  than  a  sensible  paleness,  which  I  felt  spread 
ing  over  my  cheek.  A  sharp,  keen  blade  was  enter 
ing  my  heart  as  she  spoke,  but  I  kissed  her  on  her 
brow,  perhaps  with  trembling  lips,  and  hastened 
away  from  her  side.  It  needed  all  my  courage,  and 
a  pertinacious  contemplation  of  the  looking-glass  that 
day,  to  preserve  the  command  over  my  emotions.  I 
kept  repeating,  as  if  it  were  a  text  : 

"  '  You're  old,  old  boy,  old  and  ugly,  too  !' 

"  I  recalled,  too,  Goethe's  plan,  who,  upon  the 
occurrence  of  any  calamity,  betook  himself  forth 
with  to  the  study  of  a  new  science.  But,  it  was 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  71 

sternly  difficult  to  follow  the  cold  abstrusities  of  a  sci 
ence,  with  visions  of  what  might  have  been — visions 
of  a  trusting,  up-looking,  confiding  love  ever  at  my 
side,  nestling  in  my  heart — of  a  radiance  upon  my 
hearthstone,  where  only  a  shadow  was  now  forever 
to  rest — of  sunlight  in  my  heart,  which  now  could 
never  more  enter — with  visions  of  youth,  and  bloom, 
and  beauty  thrusting  themselves  between  me  and  the 
page  I  I  was  weaker  than  Goethe.  The  study  af 
forded  me  no  oblivion.  I  paced  my  floor  that  night 
until  the  dawn  broke  into  my  room,  and  then  I  buried 
my  face  in  my  pillow,  and  half  slept,  half  dreamed 
away  an  hour  or  two. 

"  In  the  morning,  I  breakfasted  before  the  looking- 
glass,  and  I  sternly  said,  '  Old  and  ugly  !  What 
presumption  to  think  of  love  !  Study  it  well,  old 
boy;  it  is  your  only  cure.' 

"The  wedding-day  came,  and  I  stood  up  in 
church,  very  calm  and  very  passive,  to  see  the  cere 
mony.  Every  eye  was  strained  to  see  the  bride 
enter  ;  she  came,  and  her  course  led  her  within  a 
few  feet  of  me.  The  church  grew  suddenly  dark  as 
she  swept  by.  A  book  dropped  from  my  hand.  I 
could  neither  see  nor  hear. 

"  It  was  over,  and  the  crowd  passed  out.  I  fol 
lowed  staggeringly,  and  when  I  reached  the  porch 
the  bride  came  up — so  rarely  beautiful — called  me 


72  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

her  old  friend,  and  asked  my  blessing.  I  pressed 
back  her  curls,  gave  the  last  kiss,  and  took  the  last 
look.  Then  the  crowd  came  in  between  us,  the  old 
church  tottered,  sky  and  earth  were  commingled,  and 
I  grasped  at  a  column  for  support. 

"  I  hardly  knew  what  followed,  except  that  I 
found  myself  shortly  afterwards  hastening  through 
the  fields  with  a  wild,  irregular  step,  pausing  mechani 
cally  to  stare  up  at  the  sky,  following  the  devious 
zig-zag  fences  abstractedly,  until  at  last  I  came  to 
the  old  familiar  Shady  Side.  I  flew  to  the  water 
side,  threw  myself  down  upon  the  bank,  pulled  my 
hat  over  my  brows,  and  for  once  allowed  my  pent-up 
grief  to  break,  unchained  and  free. 

"  The  next  morning  I  brought  out  a  rod,  clapped 
a  small  glass  in  my  pocket,  went  down  to  the  old 
spot,  threw  my  hook  to  the  stream,  and  taking  out 
the  aforesaid  glass,  read  myself  a  lesson,  while  with 
one  eye  I  watched  my  reel. 

"  Old  boy  !  Sentiment  and  passion  at  your  time 
of  life,  hey  !  A  pretty  how  to  do,  upon  my  word  ! 
You're  a  man  of  the  world,  I  should  think.  Be 
cause  you  met  a  pair  of  pretty  eyes,  and  a  bright 
smile,  and  a  peachy  cheek,  you  thought  they  were 
for  you,  hey  ?  And  now  you  would  like  to  be  me 
lancholy  and  sentimental,  and  prate  about  unre 
quited  affection,  I  suppose.  You  are  an  old  fool  if 


A  Bachelor's  Story  73 

you  do.  Shake  it  off,  sir.  It  was  only  a  dream. 
Wake  up,  rub  your  eyes,  dash  your  head  in  water — 
it  will  be  all  over  with.  You  were  weak  yesterday. 
You  must  shake  and  tremble  like  a  girl,  or  a  school 
boy.  Bah  !  Can't  you  see  beauty  or  loveliness 
without  thinking  they  must  belong  to  you  ?  What 
are  you,  old,  dull,  senseless  block,  that  you  should 
dare  hope  for  so  much  ?  Keep  along  with  your 
books,  and  your  rods,  and  your  dogs,  and  don't  ever 
aspire  to  so  much  happiness  again.  It  wouldn't  be 
wise.  You'd  only  be  dropped  down  upon  earth  as 
harshly  as  now.  Be  a  man — that  is,  make  money, 
love  stocks,  count  shares,  pile  up  acres,  take  to  Wall 
street — after  the  manner  of  manhood  1  But  don't 
think  of  beauty  and  youth  again,  old  boy  ! 

"  My  line  suddenly  shot  out.  Away  went  the 
glass  over  my  head,  and  I  sprang  to  my  feet.  A 
bouncer  was  on  my  line,  that  was  certain.  Now  for 
my  skill.  '  Love  and  such  folly,'  I  cried,  '  avaunt ! 
What  are  you  to  the  glorious  sport  in  hand  ?' 

"  The  fish,  a  splendid  fellow,  was  safely  landed, 
and  I  went  back  to  the  looking-glass. 

"  It  was  shivered  into  a  hundred  pieces  I 

" '  Never  mind,  old  boy  !'  said  I,  '  You're  old  and 
ugly,  you  know,  and  you'll  never  be  guilty  of  such 
folly  again  !     Your  passion  is  shivered  as  the  glass 
is,  as  your  foolish  dream  was  !'  " 
4 


VI. 

Christmas  Eve  and  holiday  sadness — Maggie  and  Ike 
come  laden  with  greens — We  adorn,  festoon,  and  philo 
sophize — I  digress  into  many  matters,  and  make  a 
confession  that  may  cause  some  doors  to  be  shut  upon 
me. 


75 


VI. 

ON"  Christmas  Eve  I  caused  my  fire  to  be  heaped 
up  unusually  high  ;  and  then  with  my  own  hand 
I  stirred  it  with  the  poker  until  it  blazed  and  glared 
from  its  great  red  heart  outward  to  its  extremest 
limits,  with  such  cheer  and  hearty  good  will  as 
wasn't  outdone  by  Christmas  fire  anywhere.  Then 
I  lighted  two  extra  candles ;  drew  the  heavy  red 
curtains  close  ;  pulled  out  my  table  iato  the  centre 
of  the  room  ;  flung  myself  into  my  deep,  wide  arm 
chair,  and  looked  around  the  hushed  room,  bright, 
calm,  peaceful,  pleasant ;  and  then  fell  staring  at  the 
fire,  and  listening  to  the  silence* 

Merrier  and  happier  Christmas  hearths  there  were 
than  mine,  God  grant ;  brighter  ones,  with  the  glow 
of  generous  fire,  I  do  not  believe. 

But  all  day  I  had  been  struggling  against  an  ap 
proaching  sadness.  The  bells  that  ring  in  holidays, 
have  to  me  a  far-off  melancholy  cadence  ;  they  strike 
upon  the  memory  and  sound  the  past  as  well  as  the 
present ;  retrospection  awakes  at  their  touch,  and 

77 


78  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

tilings  dead,  things  gone,  things  a  thousand  tunes 
better  forgotten,  come  up  from  the  Dead  Sea  and 
flood  me  with  sadness.  And  while  Mirth  clashes  its 
cymbals,  Hilarity  bursts  into  carols,  and  Pleasure 
leaps  up  shaking  its  lusty  limbs  and  free  locks,  my 
heart,  amid  the  clashes  and  the  jocund  mirth,  and 
the  rich  laughter,  sinks  deeper  and  deeper  into  its 
retrospective  melancholy. 

On  these  occasions  I  am  like  a  traveller  on  a 
barren  road,  pausing  at  a  milestone,  and  looking 
wistfully  back  at  the  flowery  lanes  forever  past. 

I  fought  against  the  sadness  this  Christmas  Eve. 
I  got  down  my  pleasantest  books ;  I  called  in  my 
dog  that  I  might  not  be  alone  ;  I  tried  to  cheat 
myself  into  cheerfulness  by  recalling  only  mirthful 
thoughts — but  in  vain.  The  sadness  came  slowly  but 
surely  on,  like  a  summer  cloud.  I  began  to  think  of 
Christmases  past — to  paint,  in  a  contrasted  picture, 
my  lonely  Christmas  now,  and  the  jovial,  social,  glad 
Christmas  once — to  think  of  old  friends  gone  before, 
old  hopes  foregone,  old  happiness  forever  lost.  The 
old  life  and  the  old  being  came  up,  and  with  that 
emotional  egotism  with  which  we  so  fondly  dwell 
upon  the  life  of  the  past,  I  bade  the  curtains  up, 
and  memory  came  forth  to  act  the  drama  in  which 
I  was  the  hero  and  the  central  interest. 

But  hi  the  midst  of  this  self-art,  the  door  opened, 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  79 

and  in  came  Maggie  and  Ike,  each  staggering  under 
a  mighty  load  of  Christmas  greens. 

"  Ah,  Maggie,  so  thoughtful ;  kind,  too." 

"  You  said,  sir,"  said  she,  "  that  you  liked  your 
room  decked  with  winter-green  at  Christmas  tune,  so 
Ike  and  I  have  been  to  the  woods,  and  brought  you 
these." 

"  The  holly  shall  crown  my  mantel ;  the  spruce 
and  the  cedar  shall  festoon  the  wall  and  entwine  the 
door-frames  and  pictures.  We  shall  sit  under  a  green 
Christmas,  and  be  merry  if  we  can." 

Maggie  was  in  a  flush  of  eagerness  and  pleasure  ; 
her  dark  eyes  shone  like  jet ;  her  cheek  was  warm 
and  glowing ;  and  her  little  figure  undulated  and 
vibrated  with  pleasurable  excitement. 

"  Shall  we  begin,  sir,"  said  she,  "now  ?" 

"  Yes,  at  once." 

Ike,  only  half  my  friend,  and  that  his  politic  half, 
scowled  a  moment  in  the  doorway,  then  rolled  or 
twisted  himself  away  into  the  shadows  beyond,  and 
Maggie  and  I  were  alone. 

Busy  fingers  had  she  ;  the  greens  grew  rapidly  into 
wreaths  and  prettily  adjusted  clusters.  Together  we 
worked  at  the  task — intwining  every  salient  object, 
crowning  every  point  of  'vantage  ;  festooning,  gar 
landing,  or  otherwise  adorning.  Beauty  grew  be 
neath  our  hands.  The  gilding  of  the  picture-framea 


8o  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

glistened  through  the  green  twigs  ;  the  ruddy,  bright 
pleasant  tint  of  the  firelight  fell  upon  the  greens 
richly  and  pleasantly  ;  the  scene,  mellow  before,  grew 
rich  and  eloquent  now. 

"  After  all,  Maggie,"  said  I,  "  not  an  unworthy 
Christmas  Eve.  May  this  pleasant  custom  of  deck 
ing  our  homes  with  the  green  of  the  winter  forests  be 
perpetuated.  The  evergreen  typifies  the  day  and  all 
the  associations  of  the  day  ;  it  symbolizes  the  ever 
lasting  verdure  and  enduring  freshness  of  heavenly 
mercy  and  love  this  day  begun  ;  it  is  the  outward 
expression  of  memories  greener  to-day  than  other 
days — for  associations  and  recollections  of  loved  ones 
dead,  cling  around  these  prominent  epochs  of  the 
year,  and  help  to  make  them  holy.  Christmas  day 
is  a  memory  of  all  things  past,  of  all  friends  departed, 
of  all  joys  lost,  all  hopes  buried,  and  the  green  wreaths 
we  hang  upon  our  walls  are  immortelles. 

"  In  Christmases  to  come,  Maggie,  may  winter 
wreaths  keep  our  memory  green !" 

Maggie,  seemingly  touched,  hung  tenderly  over  a 
portrait  of  my  father  ;  and  the  wreath  she  wove  and 
hung  upon  its  frame  was  the  greenest  and  choicest 
of  them  all. 

And  when  the  work  was  done,  we  drew  seats  to 
our  accustomed  places  before  the  fire — I  in  my  ample 
Voltaire,  Maggie  on  her  low  ottoman  by  the  corner 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  81 

— and  fell  easily  away  into  our  usual  discursive  talk. 
Maggie  had  said  something  about  luck. 

"  Don't  use  the  word,  Maggie.  I  hate  it.  The 
thing  which  it  expresses  does  not  exist.  We  are 
all  architects,  Mag.  If  we  build  wisely  and  well, 
our  structures  will  stand  ;  if  they  fall,  be  sure  that  a 
fundamental  defect  existed  somewhere.  To  try  is  to 
succeed.  That  marvellous  gentleman  of  the  nursery 
tale  who  leaped  into  the  brier-bush  with  all  his  might, 
performed  quite  a  possible  feat  in  scratching  in  his 
eyes  again.  With  German  subtlety  I  perceive  a 
grand  moral  in  his  story,  illustrating  how  much 
energy  and  resolute  effort  will  accomplish — how  if  a 
man  but  jump  into  his  purposes  with  'might  and 
main/  mountains  may  be  moved.  Failure,  Mag,  I 
believe  to  be  invariably  the  consequence  of  some 
weakness — not  always  apparent,  but  nevertheless 
existing.  Close  and  long  observation  has  convinced 
me  of  this  truth.  I  never  failed  in  any  undertaking 
that  afterwards  I  could  not  trace  the  cause  back  to 
some  incompetency  or  weakness. 

"  '  Strong  will,  my  cousin,  monarchs  all.' 

You  will  find  that  sentiment,  Mag,  in  an  almost  for 
gotten  play,  written  in  the  hey-day  of  youth." 
"  Your  play,  sir  ?  was  it  a  tragedy?" 

"  Yes.     Every  y  ung  man  who  becomes  inoculated 
4* 


82  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

with  literature,  writes  a  tragedy.  It  is  inevitable. 
Mine!  I  built  hopes  upon  it  once  as  high  as  the  sky; 
it  proved  an  altar  upon  which  I  burnt  out  all  my  en 
thusiasm — a  tomb  in  which  were  buried  my  dreams, 
and  my  ambition.  Ah,  the  fresh  enthusiasm  of  youth 
is  as  delicate  as  a  flower;  roughly  touched  or  bruised, 
it  never  revives.  I  have  never  labored  upon  another 
work  as  I  did  upon  that  fond,  foolish,  boyish  hope. 
My  courage  has  not  been  strong;  it  could  not  recover 
the  harsh  wound  inflicted  then." 

"  Inflicted  how  V 

"  By  failure." 

"  But  failure  is  weakness,  you  say." 

"  Yes,  but  weakness  is  manifold  in  its  workings. 
It  is  sometimes  constitutional,  and  sometimes  springs 
from  inattention  of  means  to  ends.  I  planned  a  tra 
gedy  upon  a  grand  scale ;  sublime  in  its  theme,  heroic 
in  its  tone,  scanning  the  very  heavens — I  forgot  that 
man  is  scarcely  six  feet  high.  So  my  tragedy  went 
up  out  of  sight,  and  exploded  in  the  air." 

"  Then  it  was  too  good." 

"  No.  I  am  not  deceived  about  it  ;  I  was  once, 
but  am  not  now.  Its  aim  was  above  human  sym 
pathies,  and  therein  I  was  a  fool ;  while  the  plan  was 
greater  than  the  ability  to  perform.  I  chose  to  walk 
on  stilts,  and  rightfully  had  a  tumble  for  my  pains. 
Orlando  says  prettily,  that  his  love  is  just  as  high  as 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  83 

his  heart.  A  good  thought.  The  heart  is  the  great 
human  level;  its  stature  is  the  plain,  over  which  you 
may  bowl  your  sentiments,  your  fancies,  your  thoughts, 
and  be  sure  of  your  aim.  But  he  who  amis  higher  is 
lost.  The  world  feels,  and  never  thinks.  Aggre 
gately  it  has  no  brain.  Touch  its  heart  skillfully,  and 
its  great  pulse  responds  quickly,  and  surely;  give  it 
an  abstraction  to  crack,  and  it  will  make  mouths  at 
you.  As  for  my  tragedy,  in  my  will  I  shall  order  it 
to  be  burned.  The  Hindoo  widow  is  consumed  upon 
her  husband's  funeral  pyre  ;  so  my  child  shall  be  im 
molated  on  its  father's  grave." 

"  Your  child — I  do  not  understand." 

"  The  offspring  of  my  fancy.  With  every  poet,  the 
product  of  his  inspiration  is  linked  to  him  by  such 
ties  of  consanguinity  as  the  world  cannot  comprehend, 
and  which  is  paralleled  alone  by  that  intense  fondness 
manifested  by  a  mother  for  her  child.  Every  poet 
knows  this  ;  all  others  know  it  not. 

"  But  it  would  have  been  better  for  me,  as  with 
many  other  men,  to  have  escaped  the  infection  of  lit 
erature  ;  wiser  if  Parnassus,  glittering  in  its  eternal 
sunlight,  had  never  dazzled  and  blinded  me.  Wiser? 
Ah,  yes,  there  it  is.  It  is  always  wiser  to  leave  un- 
attempted  and  undone.  Wisdom,  by  which  I  mean 
that  quality  otherwise  known  as  common  sense,  is, 
after  all,  a  simple  science.  I  can  sum  it  up  in  one 


84  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

infallible  word — No!  Its  whole  teachings  are  eternal 
variations  upon  this  word.  It  is  simply  a  huge  nega 
tive.  Impulse  precipitates,  wisdom  restrains  ;  hot 
young  blood  rushes  forward  and  is  lost;  old  calm 
wisdom  pauses  and  is  saved.  "Wisdom  incessantly 
cries,  'Don't;'  '  Better  not;'  its  mottoes  are,  'Look 
before  you  leap  ;'  '  Wisely  and  slow;'  'A  bird  in  the 
hand,'  etc.  It  is  a  check-rein,  and  a  tight  one;  it  is 
a  social  brake ;  it  is  conservatively  pledged  to  restrain 
progress  and  advancement,  and  to  frown  upon  innova 
tion;  it  is  cold,  calm,  lofty,  dignified,  impressive — and 
its  name  is,  No!  Impulse  is  all  daring,  but  great  folly. 
Once  in  a  while  it  snatches  success,  and  accomplishes 
an  end;  ninety-nine  times  it  tumbles  hi  the  mud.  Do 
you  point  out  a  great  poet  ?  I  will  show  you  a  hun 
dred  who  have  attempted  the  flight  in  defiance  of 
wisdom's  whispered  '  No/  and  could  not  keep  the 
whig.  These  tremendously  active  affirmative  souls, 
have  sometimes  accomplished  great  results;  but  alas! 
how  often  by  the  sacrifice  of  the  individual.  For 
wisdom,  among  its  other  qualities,  has  an  '  eye  to  the 
main  chance;'  its  negatives  are  intensely  selfish;  but 
it  faithfully  points  out  the  beaten,  worn,  respectable, 
tried  path,  and  has  a  holy  horror  of  the  unknown 
wilds  on  either  side.  Think  of  it,  and  you  will  see  I 
am  right.  Wisdom  is  painted  as  an  owl — silent, 
therefore  negative;  stolid  and  imperturbable — nega- 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  85 

tive  again!  Its  apostle  is  Solomon.  What  is  his 
greatest  saying — there  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun 
— but  a  sweeping  negative  ?" 

Maggie's  cheek  grew  hot.  With  one  of  her  quick, 
vehement  motions,  she  exclaimed: 

"  I  cannot  understand  you.  To  accomplish,  seems 
to  me  the  hope  and  glory  of  all.  Oh,  sir,  I  long  so 
much  to  do  something — to  be  " She  hesitated. 

"  A-h,  Mag,  I  see, 

"  '  That  fever  at  the  core, 
Fatal  to  him  who  bears,  to  all  who  ever  bore.' 

Cast  it  out,  trample  it  down — hear  wisdom  speaking 
now,  assuming  its  eternal  form  of  No,  and  imploring 
you  to  come  down  from  the  clouds  wherein  you  move; 
for  below,  here  on  earth,  amid  simple  hopes  and 
earthly  things,  lies  happiness.  Lift  up  your  hands, 
and  you  pull  down  hot  coals  upon  your  head  ;  you 
light  the  fires  of  reckless  discontent,  and  unsated 
yearning;  fires  that  grow  upon  the  very  tears  shed 
to  extinguish  them." 

Those  fires  seemed  to  be  lighted  even  as  I  spoke. 
Her  eyes  gleamed,  her  cheeks  blazed,  and  her  lips 
seemed  as  if  some  unseen  hand  had  reached  down 
and  touched  them  with  fire.  Ah,  not  from  without, 
but  from  within  came  that  strange  Promethean  heat. 

"  Sir,  sir,  I  am  restless,  discontented  now;  and  I 


86  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

yearn  miserably  for  things  I  cannot  understand.  I 
am  unhappy,  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  am  unhappy." 
Tears  even  then,  gemming,  pearl-like,  the  hem  of 
her  grand  passions,  broidered  upon  the  woof  and 
web  of  her  swelling  thoughts.  Thoughts,  too,  with 
so  little  voice — vague,  unformed,  and  shadowy,  but 
convulsing  with  unseen,  subterranean  force,  one  day 
to  break  out  into  some  noble  utterance,  or  ever  min 
ing  within,  consume  and  destroy.  Alas,  for  those 
who  feel  and  think  too  much  !  Sometimes  I  see  a 
glorious  future  for  Maggie  ;  and  sometimes,  alas  ! 
the  universal  tragedy  enacted  in  every  heart — grief, 
storm,  passion  and  death !  But  these  breakers 
upon  which  her  bark  of  destiny  seems  to  set — 
these  passions  and  the  fires  that  slumber  in  her 
breast,  were  not  new  to  me.  From  the  first  I  had 
detected  their  presence ;  and  if  the  world  were 
different  from  what  it  is  ;  if  large  utterance,  grand 
thoughts,  high  purposes,  had  known  roads  upon 
which  to  travel ;  if  for  women,  such  as  Maggie  will 
make,  there  were  channels  and  currents  to  float 
them  onward  to  then*  goal,  then  I  would  bid  en 
couragement  and  sympathy  to  shine  on  Maggie,  in 
whose  warmth  and  light  she  would  grow  strong  and 
great.  But  as  it  is,  the  upward  atmosphere  is  hot 
and  feverish — the  earth  alone,  cool  and  wholesome. 
Her  head  upon  the  grass,  and  the  daisy,  and  the  violet, 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  87 

then  !  And  from  simple  things  let  her  soul  draw 
calm  content. 

"  Maggie,"  said  I,  with  my  privilege  of  abruptly 
changing  a  theme,  "read  to  me.  There  is  Mon 
taigne.  Open  it  anywhere.  The  old,  quaint,  garru 
lous,  whimsical  gossip  never  lacks  interest — cool  and 
grateful  interest,  too.  There  is  not  a  pulse-beat  in  a 
line  he  has  written.  You  can  sleep  after  him  as 
calmly  and  sweetly  as  after  an  opiate  ;  not  a  dream, 
nor  a  haunting  sentiment,  nor  a  disquieting  thought 
in  his  whole  work.  He  is  like  a  supper  of  porridge, 
light  and  wholesome." 

Maggie  read  a  little,  but  even  Montaigne  could 
not  cool  the  heat  so  unexpectedly  incited.  It  lin 
gered  and  hung  about  her  still — plunged  her  into 
fits  of  abstraction,  broke  out  into  those  character 
istic  movements  which  I  have  described  ;  and  at  last 
brought  her  to  a  full  stop  in  the  midst  of  one  of 
Montaigne's  humorous  stories. 

"  Oh,  come,  Maggie,"  said  I,  "  this  won't  do. 
Try  Shakspeare." 

She  jumped  up,  ran  to  the  volume,  opened  it 
hastily,  and  began  to  read  Macbeth. 

"  Stop,  Mag.  Not  Macbeth.  The  Thane's  wife 
and  Maggie  Dean  have  elements  in  common,  and 
would  run  full  tilt  against  each  other.  Like  won't 
cure  like." 


88  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

"Why,  to  an  ambitious  nature,  would  not  the 
story  of  Macbeth  prove  a  warning  and  a  cure  ?" 

"  No  1  It  would  prick  him  on  as  he  never  was 
pricked  before.  I  would  not  attempt  to  cure  a  thief 
by  showing  him  a  hanging  ;  nor  stop  a  murderer  by 
the  history  of  other  murders.  There  are  in  each  of  us 
grains  of  perversity  lying  in  wait  for  opportunity  ; 
and  example  stimulates  them  into  activity.  Con 
vince  a  man  that  his  crime  is  an  isolated  one,  that  it 
is  out  of  the  range  of  human  sympathy,  that  de 
pravity  has  never  before  reached  a  depth  so  low,  and 
it  will  be  horrible  in  his  sight.  The  most  forsaken 
cling  to  some  link  with  their  kind,  and  find  consola 
tion  for  their  wickedness  in  the  wickedness  of  others. 
Vice  is  as  fond  of  precedents  as  a  judge.  Isolation 
is  the  great  horror  of  humanity. 

"  If  intending  to  commit  murder,  I  would  read 
1  Macbeth.'  The  sentiment  of  crime,  with  its  central 
interest,  its  harrowing  sensations,  its  sublimity,  its 
heroic  inflation  of  the  ordinary  to  the  extraordinary, 
would  gradually  bring  me  to  a  grim  and  pleasurable 
contemplation  of  my  own  dire  purpose.  There  is 
no  doubt  of  it  in  my  mind,  Maggie.  Murder  in 
blank  verse  is  fascinating,  but  dangerous — for  we 
cannot  see  the  tremendous  difference  between  it  and 
murder  in  prose. 

"  If,  indeed,  all  murders  have  not  a  poetical  ele- 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  89 

ment.  De  Quincey,  when  he  considered  Murder  as  a 
Fine  Art,  touched  the  very  core  of  the  subject. 
And  I  will  make  a  bold  confession.  Looking  back 
at  the  sensations  I  have  at  tunes  experienced  when 
seeing  a  murderer  or  a  great  criminal,  and  analyzing 
them  now,  I  discover  their  main  element  was  envy !" 

"  Envy  !"  exclaimed  Maggy,  with  an  incredulous 
stare  of  astonishment. 

"  Horror  of  the  crime,  of  course,  but  envy  of  the 
man's  keener  experience  of  passion  and  feeling. 
Sensation  is  life,  and  any  situation  which  can  de 
velop  our  emotions  so  as  to  magnify  ourselves  and 
intensify  existence,  is  a  means  of  a  higher,  and 
therefore  superior  vitality.  To  live  is  the  great  aim 
of  nature — not  merely  respiration,  but  life  vibrative, 
profound,  intense,  in  which  every  function  springs 
into  action,  every  emotion  throbs  with  ecstatic  feel 
ing,  every  power,  quality  and  sensibility  of  the  mind 
or  heart  starts  into  active  and  vital  being.  See  how 
eagerly  we  all  run  after  sensations  and  excitements. 
The  fascination  of  the  battle-field,  the  intense  pleasures 
of  the  gaming-table,  the  delight  in  adventure  and 
danger,  the  eagerness  for  society,  all  these  evince  the 
universal  desire  for  enlarged  experience  of  those 
powers  that  lie  within  us.  Fiction,  the  drama,  and 
poetry — all  grew  up  out  of  this  need.  By  the  aid 
of  the  novel  we  not  only  live  through  our  own  sen- 


90  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

sations,  but  those  of  others  ;  we  extend  the  boun 
daries  of  life  and  feeling  ;  we  transport  ourselves  by 
the  aid  of  the  imagination  into  heroes,  who  act  upon 
a  larger  area  and  in  a  broader  life  than  our  own  cir 
cumstances  admit  of.  Nothing  is  so  egotistical  as 
the  enjoyment  of  romance  and  poetry.  It's  nothing 
more  than  looking  in  a  mirror.  The  novel-reader 
crawls  into  the  skins  of  all  the  heroes  he  admires  ; 
he  fills  them  out,  strides  in  them,  and  when  he 
glorifies  the  original,  is  secretly  glorifying  him- 


"  But  I  tread  upon  ground  too  speculative.  Turn 
to  '  As  You  Like  It ' — that  is  cool,  dewy,  pastoral 
and  sweet." 

Maggie  read,  and  the  gentle  influence  of  the  most 
thoroughly  beautiful  production  of  the  world,  fell 
upon  us  both,  benignly  and  deliciously. 

You  might  extinguish  all  the  literature  of  the 
ante-present  period,  if  you  left  me  Hamlet  for  my 
philosophy  and  As  You  Like  It  for  my  heart ! 

Unfortunately  Maggie's  dull  perception  of  humor 
shuts  out  one  source  of  pleasure  in  "  As  You  Like 
It."  Touchstone,  Audrey,  and  even  much  of  Rosa 
lind,  are  blank  to  her :  but  Jacques  she  enjoys  with 
such  relish  that  I  envy  her.  I  must  stimulate  a  love 
of  humor,  however.  Mr.  Fowler  shall  tell  me  where 
to  look  for  the  phrenological  development  of  that 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  91 

faculty,  and — I  wonder  if  external  applications 
would  accomplish  anything?  A  cataplasm  for  in 
stance  ? 

Humor  is  a  perennial  source  of  purity  and  fresh 
ness  to  the  mind.  It  clears  away  the  cobwebs  ;  it 
qualifies  the  hot,  rich  draughts  of  sentiment ;  it 
freshens  up  the  sated  edge  of  appetite  ;  it  flows 
through  the  whole  being  like  a  babbling  stream,  with 
verdure  always  green  upon  its  banks.  Without 
humor,  we  are  either  hot  simooms  or  arid  plains. 
Your  Keats  and  your  Shelleys  burn  themselves  out 
for  want  of  it ;  your  Shakspeares  and  your  Dickenses 
are  so  irrigated  by  its  delicious  coolness,  that  they 
endure  green  and  fresh  forever. 


VII. 

Hearts  and  brains — The  gauntlet  thrown  down  at 
the  feet  of  facts,  and  Caesar  confronted  with  Hamlet 
— The  Shaksperians  preferred  to  the  Romans — Birth 
days  hung  in  black — The  five  comparisons  of  life — and 
a  hint  or  two  for  the  reader  about  talking  and  listening. 


VII. 

SCENE  :  Maggie  and  I  chatting  in  the  warm 
tint,  of  my  fire-lighted  study  ;  the  curtains 
dropped  against  the  window  panes  ;  the  oaken  book 
cases,  with  open  doors  ;  the  low  ceiling,  crossed  with 
beams  burnished  by  the  fire-light ;  the  walls  hi  crim 
son  paper  and  panelled  pictures.  A  rich,  dreamy 
atmosphere,  in  which  the  fancy  delights.  Maggie 
by  the  fire,  one  cheek  hi  a  glow,  the  other  in 
shadow  ;  and  two  eyes,  restless  and  gleaming  be 
tween  her  elf-locks,  fixed  with  their  keen  light  on 
me.  In  such  a  scene  the  thought  makes  free 
ventures,  and  plays  wanton  pranks.  I  put  no  check 
upon  it ;  it  leads  where  it  listeth. 

"Well,  Maggie,"  I  am  saying  to  her,  "we  are 
somewhat  liked,  but  a  censorious  critic  has  been 
writing  to  my  publisher,*  declaring  that  my  lucu 
brations  are  misnamed,  inasmuch  as  they  partake 
very  little  of  Maggie  and  very  much  of  Z" 

*  A  few  of  these  sketches  first  appeared  in  the  pages  of  a  New  York 
periodical,  under  the  title  of  "  Maggie  and  I." 

95 


96  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

"  Why,  sir,  what  would  he  have  ?" 

"1  do  not  know.  But  surveying  the  alphabet 
coolly  and  dispassionately,  up  and  down  its  full 
length,  I  frankly  acknowledge  to  that  censor,  whoever 
he  may  be,  that  I  cannot  discover  another  letter  to 
which  I  am  so  much  attached. 

"And,  speaking  without  malice,  I  do  believe  it  to 
be  the  favorite  letter  of  mankind  generally,  not  even 
excepting  the  unamiable  critic  who  has  taken  me  to 
task  for  a  very  natural  weakness.  And  a  mighty 
letter  truly.  It  reaches  from  arctic  to  antarctic,  and 
equatorially  girdles  the  earth.  Strike  it  from  the 
vocabulary  of  common  use,  and  you  blind  the  world 
to  a  perception  of  its  own  greatness  ;  you  undo  self- 
exultation,  self-love,  self-worship,  and  all  the  delight 
ful  forms  of  self-contemplation. 

"  The  letter  /is  in  the  pupil  of  every  man's  sight, 
and  so  big  that  he  can  but  just  peep  over  it  at  the 
world  outside." 

Maggie  made  a  quick  movement,  and  then  was 
stiU. 

"  I  understand  your  thought,  Mag.  You  should 
have  spoken  it.  Youth  and  impulse  belong  so 
naturally  one  to  the  other,  that  although  we  old  fel 
lows  have  learned  the  vices  of  policy  and  reserve,  we 
are  unwilling  to  see  them  sitting  in  watch  upon  the 
utterance  of  the  young.  Give  thought  breath,  Mag  ; 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  97 

speak  freely  and  openly  ;  some  foolish  things  may  live 
for  brief  seconds  upon  the  air  (it  being  the  high  vir 
tue  of  friendship  that  it  forgets  whatever  it  has  no 
pleasure  to  remember),  but  spontaneousness  is  so  in 
spiriting  and  fine,  that  it  compensates  many  times  for 
the  few  unwise  things  the  nnwary  tongue  drops  off 
with  its  pearls." 

"  Are  you  going  to  forget  to  tell  me  what  my 
thought  was  ?"  said  Maggie. 

"  No ;  but  I  shall  approach  it  by  what  devious 
ways  I  please.  The  thought  was  this  :  he  eternally 
talks  about  egotism — he  judges  by  himself. 

"  So  I  do,  Maggie.  I  have  not  as  good  oppor 
tunities  for  observing  other  people's  hearts  as  I  have 
my  own.  My  heart  is  the  only  one  I  have  in  my 
own  possession  ;  and  very  naturally,  therefore,  it 
serves  as  the  sample  by  which  I  judge  of  its  fellow 
hearts.  There  is  the  advantage,  too,  of  always  hav 
ing  it  at  hand  ;  of  experiencing  its  intolerable  de 
sires,  its  huge  aspirations,  its  slothful  pleasures,  its 
love  of  praise,  its  unceasing  contemplation  of  self — 
of  judging,  in  fact,  from  actual  and  mathematical  de 
monstration.  A  man  without  a  heart  now  could 
scarcely  be  a  judge  of  hearts  ;  and  if  I  bring  my 
own  up  and  scrutinize  it  closely,  I  am  all  the  more 
able  to  accurately  read  other  people's,  which  I 
mostly  do  by  deciphering  the  signs  and  the  outward 
5 


98  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

tokens — by  watching  the  face,  that  dial  whereon  the 
movements  of  the  works  underneath  are  impressed  in 
unmistakable  characters,  to  all  grown  wise  by  their 
'  penny  of  observation.' 

"  This  much  I  have  learned.  Absolutely  bad 
hearts  are  few ;  bad  heads  are  many.  Some 
selfish  appetites  are  in  the  heart,  I  grant  you  ; 
but  it  is  the  seat  of  all  the  generous  emotions 
and  noble  impulses.  Tenderness,  sympathy,  love, 
benevolence  dwell  in  men's  bosoms ;  in  their 
brains,  craft,  cunning,  cold  sophistry,  audacious 
reason." 

"  Oh,  sir,  you  must  be  wrong." 

"  I  will  prove  it.  Milton  gave  shape  to  the  uni 
versal  idea  of  Satan  when  he  created  Lucifer  the 
impersonation  of  intellect.  In  him  existed  all  the 
forces  of  Mind,  all  the  powers  that  create  and  dare 
and  do — the  will  of  the  diplomat,  the  sophistry  of 
the  skeptic,  the  skill  of  the  general ;  intellect  that 
soared,  grasped,  pierced  high  and  looked  far,  but 
intellect  without  a  heart.  And  therein  alone  it 
differs  from  human  intellect.  Our  good  angel  sits 
in  the  bosom  ;  in  the  heart  burn  the  holy  fires  of 
faith  and  charity  ;  it  is  the  heart  which  lifts  up  and 
guides  the  intellect  in  the  right,  which  warms  with 
its  human  warmth  the  proud,  cold,  ambitions  rea 
son  ;  and  by  its  ever-living  humanity,  makes  men  of 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  99 

those  who  would  otherwise  be  sneering,  mocking, 
daring  Lucifers.  Do  you  see  ?" 

"I  try  to,  sir.  But  intellect  inspires  worship. 
The  great  are  so  grand  1" 

"  Yes,  to  youth,  when  life  is  like  a  new  play.  But 
I  have  peeped  behind  the  scenes,  and  seen  too  often 
corked  eyebrows,  blank  verse,  and  a  strut,  make  a 
fool  glitter  like  a  god." 

"  But  some  are  truly  great,"  persisted  Maggie  ; 
"  all  are  not  hollowuess  behind  a  beautiful  mask." 

"  No  ;  by  humanity  I  swear  it  !  I  shall  not 
destroy  your  faith,  Mag,  in  human  excellence,  but 
beware.  Admire  not  intellect  alone.  Without  a 
heart,  it  is  Lucifer — and  Milton's,  let  me  tell  you, 
was  not  the  last." 

— "  There  are  two  arcs  in  the  world,  Mag. 
One  rests  on  the  horizons  ;  it  spans  the  Visible  from 
the  right  to  the  left.  The  other  is  not  bigger  than 
two  spread  hands,  yet,  by  my  soul,  it  outspans  the 
first  a  hundred  fold  ;  its  rests  are  upon  the  very 
limits  of  space  ;  it  reaches  from  to-day  unto  the  very 
beginning,  and  vaults,  in  its  narrow  space,  all  the 
ages.  I  mean  the  brain." 

"  Oh,  yes — I  see." 

"  I  am  glad  you  do.  Obtuseness  is  not  pleasant. 
Yes,  Maggie,  the  arc  of  the  brain  is  a  mighty  one, 


loo  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

grander  even  than  this  'brave  overhanging  firma 
ment.'  By  the  by,  I  doubt  if  this  line  is  as  Shak- 
speare  wrote  it.  In  the  early  editions  it  is  '  this 
brave  o'erhanging,'  'firmament?  omitted  and  '  o'er- 
hanging '  used  snbstantively.  So  written,  the  phrase 
has  a  trne  Shaksperian  sweetness  and  richness.  I 
like  it  best. 

"  Bnt  of  this  dome  that  tops  the  human  architec 
ture.  It  is  a  grand  affair — in  my  present  mode  of 
thought,  I  desire  you  to  remember,  for  presently  I 
may  be  cynical.  Who  knows  ?  There  is  one  I  see 
before  me,  I  mean  yours,  of  course.  Even  while  I 
speak,  how  it  compasses  all  things  ;  how  it  outdoes 
Puck,  and  puts  a  girdle  round  the  earth  with  a 
breath  ;  how  it  reaches  from  things  terrestrial  to 
things  celestial ;  how,  within  the  busy,  throbbing, 
dark  and  narrow  vault,  the  world,  in  innumerable 
fleeting  pictures,  is  photographed  !  And  then,  Mag, 
the  dreams  it  has  known.  Ah,  could  they  all  appear 
and  march  before  you  now,  like  the  procession  of 
ghostly  kings  in  Macbeth,  how  preposterous  and 
absurd  " 

"  Sir  !"  exclaimed  Maggie,  a  little  offended. 

"  Grand  dreams,  Mag,  no  doubt.  Ah,  we  are  all 
artists.  Our  canvas  is  the  future  ;  and  our  palettes 
glow  with  Utopian  colors.  Jove  !  how  we  paint 
that  future — in  colors  to  which  Titian  is  pale  and 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  101 

weak  1  how  we  gild  and  adorn,  and  never  touch  our 
pencils  in  the  colors  of  the  past.  Never,  never  in 
the  past. 

"  We  suffer,  we  see  hopes  burst,  we  live  through 
days  of  disappointment  and  weariness  ;  but  still  faith 
ever  turns  hopefully  and  believingly  to  the  future. 
Crowd  the  past  with  what  evils  we  may,  experience 
throws  no  shadow  on  the  great  to-come,  the  all-hail 
hereafter." 

Maggie  shook  her  head. 

"  There  is  my  father,"  said  she  ;  "  he  is  very 
gloomy.  He  is  always  prophesying  evil.  He  pre 
dicts  bad  of  everything." 

"  Your  father's  daughter's  friend  declines  to  be 
beaten  in  a  fair  argument  by  personality.  Gene 
ralities  were  never  broken  by  specialties.  Theories 
are  sometimes  more  vital  than  apparent  facts  ;  and 
even  in  the  face  of  ocular  demonstration,  I  choose 
to  adhere  to  principle  based  upon  comprehensive  de 
ductions  of  general  truths. 

"  Facts,  I  dare  say,  are  very  convincing  and 
important  things  to  some  people,  but  I  have  very 
little  respect  for  them.  Julius  Csesar,  no  doubt, 
was  a  tremendous  fact ;  but,  absolutely,  Hamlet  is 
much  the  more  real  personage  of  the  two.  It 
requires  more  imagination  to  conceive  the  existence 


1O2  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

of  the  great  Roman,  than  of  the  Dane.  To  dress 
him  up,  to  put  your  fancy  into  the  circumstances 
of  his  life  ;  to  see  hhn  walk  and  hear  his  voice  ;  to 
shape  before  you  his  individuality  and  clearly  perceive 
his  character,  are  nothing  like  so  easy  as  with  the 
Shaksperian  creation,  who  lives  in  your  imagination 
with  such  reality,  vividness,  and  circumstantiality 
of  occupation,  thoughts,  looks,  accent,  temper,  feeling 
and  suffering,  that  the  actuality  of  his  existence  is 
more  positive  than  of  any  of  the  dim  personages  who 
move  through  the  remote  arcades  of  history.  What 
are  facts  worth,  then,  if  so  much  less  vital  than 
imagination?  Let  those  love  them  who  may. 
There  are  some  fictions  I  would  not  exchange  for 
half  the  facts  in  all  the  world.  If  called  upon  to 
choose,  for  instance,  between  the  host  of  Romans 
and  the  characters  of  Shakspeare,  I  would  not 
hesitate.  Hamlet  and  the  rest  are  dear  to  me  ; 
Caesar,  Antony,  Brutus,  Portia,  would  have  to  go. 
And  with  my  Shaksperians  I  would  have  the 
hearts  of  men.  Beatrice  would  make  them  laugh  ; 
Juliet  and  Ophelia  would  make  them  weep  ;  Ham 
let  would  be  every  man's  brother  ;  Romeo,  Orlando, 
Jacques,  Benedict,  each  should  hold  some  inseverable 
link  to  human  hearts  ;  and  around  about  us  would 
gather  forever  the  sympathies  and  loves  of  the 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  103 

world.  Of  Cato,  or  Pompey,  or  Portia,  could  this 
be  so  ?  A  fig  for  facts.  The  richness  of  my  soul 
has  not  been  drawn  from  them." 

"I  wish  I  could  understand  you,"  said  Maggie, 
"  but  I  cannot." 

"  You  confound  fad  with  truth.  Truth  is  a  prin 
ciple  at  the  base  of  all  things  genuine,  but  facts  are 
frequently  nothing  more  than  isolated  impertinences, 
or  physical  accidents.  Take  Alexander  and  Othello. 
In  the  first  part  of  the  career  of  the  Greek,  he  hap 
pened  to  be  born.  Now,  matter-of-fact  people  take 
unfair  advantage  of  this  little  superiority  over  Othello, 
who  happened  not  to  be  born — but  I  do  not.  Mate 
rial  truth  made  up  one;  aesthetic  truth  the  other.  I 
do  not  choose  to  acknowledge  any  important  differ 
ence.  Profane  history,  which  somebody  says  is  a 
conspiracy  against  truth,  gives  us  the  conquering 
Grecian  ;  poetical  history,  which  is  a  conspiracy  in 
behalf  of  truth,  gives  us  the  Moor." 

"  Please  to  tell  me,"  said  Maggie,  "  if  I  am  an 
isolated  impertinence,  or  physical  accident  ?  I  am  a 
fact,  I  suppose." 

"  Facts  are  impertinences,  Mag,  when  thrust  angu 
larly  into  theory;  when,  by  virtue  of  a  perverse  ex 
istence  they  damage  beautiful  dogmas  built  up  with 
out  their  aid.  For  instance:  the  philosophers  have 
a  theory  that  mind  is  an  attribute  of  man.  A  good 


104  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

theory.  I  accept  it.  But  lo!  there  comes  along  some 
one,  my  man  Patrick,  we'll  say,  utterly  without 
mind,  and  where  is  the  theory — or  where  would  be 
the  theory  if  Pat,  having  no  manner  of  right  to  exist 
at  all;  was  not  set  down  as  a  perverse,  though  per 
haps  not  an  isolated,  impertinence  ?  Here  fact  and 
theory  meet  in  full  tilt.  Fact  goes  down  at  once,  of 
course." 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,  whether  you  are  in  jest  or 
earnest." 

"  Let  talk,  Mag,  have  its  full  play;  let  jest  season 
truth,  and  the  playful  mingle  with  the  earnest.  Be 
sides,  if  we  cannot  be  a  little  extravagant,  and  hang 
about  our  chat  the  free  caprices  of  humor,  there  is 
very  little  use  of  talking  at  all.  I  will  consent  to  be 
wise  at  tunes,  but — homeopathically ;  for  in  wisdom, 
at  least,  I  am  sure  the  world  is  on  my  side,  and  will 
take  its  doses  in  infinitesimals. 

"  Maggie,  do  you  not  know  that  this  is  my  birth 
day  ?» 

"  Why  no,  I  did  not." 

"  To-day,  fifty  years  ago,  the  world  begun." 

"  Sir  ?» 

"  Of  course,  Mag,  that's  absurd,  as  I  see  you  think. 
You  would  tell  me  that  the  world's  natal  day  was 
thousands  of  years  ago.  But  all  that  is  nothing  to 
me.  What  was  before  me,  to  me  did  not  exist :  and 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  105 

hence  you  see,  categorically,  that  the  world  begun 
when  I,  by  dint  of  sight,  and  ear,  and  touch,  made  it 
out.  Before  that  we  were  only  each  a  chaos  to  the 
other." 

"  You  ought  to  have  had  a  celebration,  sir." 

"  Oh,  no.  Show  me  some  way  to  roll  back  the 
years,  and  I  will  get  up  a  celebration  with  all  my 
heart.  If  birthdays  commemorated  years  won,  and 
not  years  lost,  I  should  '  smell  holyday '  indeed,  and 
have  good  cause.  Birthdays  should  be  hung  in  black, 
and  not  in  festive  ;  for  they  mark  not  what  we  have 
gained,  but  what  we  have  lost.  Life,  unhappily,  is 
not  gradation,  but  retrogradation.  It  is  a  downward 
sweep,  from  and  not  to  the  ends  coveted  and  strug 
gled  for." 

When  Maggie  does  not  understand  me,  a  look  so 
wistful  and  eager  crosses  her  countenance,  that  I 
make  haste  to  explain  without  waiting  for  her  wish 
to  find  words.  In  response  to  this  look  I  pro 
ceeded: 

"  Life,  my  girl,  has  its  face  forever  set  towards  a 
goal ;  but  year  by  year,  sees  that  goal  more  and 
more  distant.  It  started  out  with  hopes  that  it  could 
nearly  reach ;  with  honors  almost  touching  its  brow ; 
with  glory,  and  fame,  and  happiness,  seemingly  falling 
into  its  upstretched  hands.  But  with  every  year, 
those  hopes,  and  that  happiness,  have  slowly  receded 
5* 


106  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

— fading  into  cloudy  distances,  and  up  to  inaccessible 
heights.  Life  pursues  them,  until  age  comes  down 
upon  the  blood,  the  limbs,  and  the  lusty  vigor,  and 
they  disappear,  alas,  forever.  Life  is  a  perpetual 
labor  of  Sisyphus.  It  is  the  schoolboy's  two  steps 
backward  to  one  step  forward.  Nothing,  nothing 
more.  I  will  keep  no  birthdays,  which  only  mark 
how  far  I  sink  away  from  the  things  I  have  sought ; 
which  notch  darkly  my  fall,  and  not  my  rise. 

"  Indeed,  with  me,  by  weakness,  perversity,  or  what 
I  cannot  tell,  misfortune  hath  travelled  my  road  with 
persistent  companionship.  I  have  been  incessantly 
climbing  ladders  with  broken  rounds  at  the  top. 
Some  spirit  of  my  destiny  has  taken  apparent  delight 
in  pulling  the  pegs  out  from  my  ventures,  and  bring 
ing  me  to  earth  with  concussive  abruptness. 

"  I  was  about  to  sum  up  in  one  sentence,  what  life 
is,  but  I  find  comparisons  numerous,  springing  to  my 
lips.  It  would  not  be  difficult  to  find  one  for  each  of 
your  five  fingers,  Maggie.  Begin  and  count  them  off. 

"  Life  is  a  see-saw — one  perpetual  succession  of 
hopes  up,  and  hopes  down.  We  keep  at  the  game, 
until  at  some  odd  tune,  we  drop  off  into  the  grave." 

"  Oh,  I  think  that's  good  !"  exclaimed  Maggie. 

"  Life  is  a  pair  of  stairs — long,  high,  and  steep, 
up  which  we  are  pricked  by  inexorable  Tune,  with  no 
turning  back,  and  no  landing-place  at  top. 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  107 

"  Life  is  like  a  picture  with  a  far  perspective,  seem 
ingly  reaching  to  almost  interminable  distances  ;  it 
proves  but  a  span  from  beginning  to  end. 

"  Life  is  a  roast  joint;  it  begins  by  being  very  well 
done  on  the  outside,  is  poorly  done  in  the  middle,  and 
ends  miserably  in  a  refuse  bone." 

"  I  don't  think  that  very  true." 

"I  do.  Give  me  life  fresh  served.  Youth  is  the 
only  true  glory,  and  real  good  of  life  ;  the  only 
savory,  juicy  portion  of  existence.  Let  me  see. 
Where  are  you  now,  Mag  ?" 

"  On  the  little  finger." 

"  The  little  finger  must  not  come  poorly  off.  Life 
is  like  a  river,  in  its  youth  rushing  forward  to  the 
ocean,  which  is  the  world,  full  of  big  dreams,  and 
swelling  with  the  huge  importance  it  feels  itself 
about  to  confer  upon  the  sea  ;  it  plunges  in,  and  is 
astonished  to  find  itself  swallowed  up,  and  never 
more  heard  of." 

"  I  declare  they  are  all  unhappy  ones." 

"  Yes,  something  misanthropical ;  I  season  my 
talk  according  to  the  spice  of  my  nature.  But  I 
concede  that  life  is  not  always  '  as  tedious  as  a  twice- 
told  tale.'  It  falls  differently  to  different  men.  To 
some,  for  instance,  it  is  like  a  June  day,  calm,  agree 
able,  and  gentle  ;  others  seem  to  experience  nothing 
but  March,  and  to  be  incessantly  travelling  around 


io8  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

blustery  comers.  Still  others  know  only  December 
snows,  stern  and  silent  with  great  grief ;  some  are 
consumed  with  the  passionate  heat  of  August  suns  ; 
merry  May  makes  up  the  glad  natures  of  others  ;  but 
alas  !  how  few  know  the  mellow  and  golden  fruitage 
of  autumn  1 

"  But  bless  me,  Mag,  we  have  nearly  talked  the 
fire  out.  Heap  it  up.  A  dull  hearth  is  worse  than 
a  dull  friend." 

"  There,  sir  ;  it  blazes  again." 

"  So  !  Ah,  Mag  !  there  is  heart  hi  a  fire.  I  have 
whispered  more  secrets  to  a  good  blaze,  than  I 
would  dare  unfold  to  other  mortals." 

"  Other  mortals  !     Are  you  crazy,  sir  ?" 

"  There  may  be  nothing  human  in  a  fire,  Mag  ; 
but  let  me  confess  that  if  ever  I  should  abandon 
Christianity,  it  would  be  to  turn  fire-worshipper.  It 
is  the  only  species  of  heathenism  I  could  ever  com 
prehend." 

"  I  have  thought  of  a  comparison,"  interrupted 
Maggie,  quickly,  "  which  I  like  better  than  yours." 

"  I  listen." 

"  Life  is  a  maze  ;  we  wander  bewildered  through 
its  labyrinths,  unable  to  find  the  clue,  but  still  de 
lighted  with  the  flowers  and  beauties  scattered  along 
its  mysterious  ways  ;  and  at  last  death  proves  our 
Ariadne." 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  109 

"  Classical  and  pretty.     You  learn  aptly,  Mag." 

"  I  try  to,  sir." 

"  Who  knows  ?  In  time  you  may  turn  talker, 
and  I  listener.  You  have  matter  enough,  there  is 
no  doubt,  but  expression  is  the  rub.  The  science  of 
words  is  held  in  contempt  by  some.  Such  fellows 
are  not  ankle  deep.  By  words  both  imps  and  angels 
can  be  stirred  up  ;  dark  passions,  and  generous  good 
ness,  by  turns,  fructify  under  their  influence.  They 
make  and  unmake  revolutions.  Justly  fitted  to  noble 
thoughts,  they  become  their  immortal  framework. 

"  Unspoken  thoughts  are  virgins.  They  must  be 
wedded  to  words  ere  they  can  attain  perfect  exist 
ence  ;  and  once  united,  they  live  and  bear  fruit  for 
ever.  No  decree  can  divorce  them.  Or  to  put  it 
another  way  ;  a  thought  unspoken  is  a  seed  in  the 
mould.  By  due  culture  it  will  flower  into  words. 
And  to  despise  the  blossom  is  to  despise  the  thought 
itself ;  for  the  flower,  the  fragrance,  and  the  germ  at 
the  heart,  are  indissolubly  wedded  by  mysterious 
alchemy  into  one  whole,  which  live  or  die  together. 

"  Words  may  conceal  thoughts  ;  then  they  are 
bastards.  Words  may  paint  thoughts  with  great 
exaggeration  of  color — then  the  soil  is  too  rich,  and 
should  be  tempered  with  clay  ;  they  may  also  tamely 
and  meanly  expound  the  hidden  conception — then 
the  soil  is  poor. 


lio  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

"  There  is  one  sin  society  will  not  forgive — silence. 
For  there  is  more  dogmatism,  intolerance,  and 
bigotry  in  your  wrapt  up  and  silent  fellow,  than  in 
the  most  vehement  zealot  that  ever  preached.  I 
met  recently  such  a  one.  My  humor,  my  sallies 
of  wit,  my  permissible  social  exaggerations,  my 
touches  of  sentiment,  all  fell  like  snow-flakes  around 
a  stone  ;  while  my  opinions,  and  my  rampant  an 
tagonisms,  purposely  shotted  so  as  to  provoke  a 
reply,  glanced  from  his  stolid  heart,  making  no  visi 
ble  impression.  The  fellow  baffled,  defeated,  and 
sent  me  about  my  business,  crest-fallen,  purely  be 
cause  of  an  impassive  silence,  which  seemed  to 
throttle  every  sentence,  and  to  sit  in  dogmatic  con 
demnation  upon  every  thought  I  uttered. 

"  I  cannot  talk  with  ease  to  people  who  employ 
themselves  in  any  way  ;  who  write,  or  sew,  or  whose 
fingers  busy  themselves  with  occupation.  I  have 
met  people,  ladies  particularly,  who  I  dare  say  were 
good  listeners,  but  whose  faces  and  eyes  have  been  so 
bent  upon  embroidery,  or  like  employment,  that  con 
versation  invariably  flagged  or  died  out  altogether. 
They  did  not  seem  to  understand  that  nothing  so 
fills  the  sails  of  conversation,  and  wafts  it  on  its  way, 
as  looks,  nods,  eye-glances,  smiles,  watchful  atten 
tion,  exclamations  properly  distributed,  and  other 
indications  of  an  intelligent  sympathy  with  the  mat- 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  ill 

ter  discussed.  Stolid  listeners  are  my  abomination. 
They  are  almost  as  bad  as  another  class  of  bores  in 
society — the  story-tellers.  I  mean  those  who  relate 
embroidered,  rambling,  loquacious  accounts  of  insig 
nificant  events — who  travel  around  the  world  to  pick 
up  a  pin  ;  who  will  give  you  the  particulars  of  a 
burnt  pudding,  with  such  circumstantiality  of  detail, 
that  if  every  word  were  a  pudding,  and  burnt  at 
that,  you  would  rather  eat  them  all,  than  listen  to 
the  bewildering  particulars. 

"  Good  listeners  are  a  sort  of  merchandise  in  de 
mand  ;  the  supply  is  inadequate.  They  are  a 
species  that  the  world  likes  ;  it  ought  to  crown  them, 
for  the  virtues  they  exhibit  and  the  sufferings  they 
endure  are  wonderful.  They  stand  up  in  deserts 
of  talk  as  patient  and  passive  as  the  pyramids. 
Some  day  a  benignant  Fox  will  canonize  them  in  a 
new  book  of  martyrs. 

"  But  something  too  much  of  this.  What  have 
you  read  to-day,  Maggie  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  Why,  I  saw  you  with  books." 

"  But  I  could  not  read.     I  could  only  think." 

"  Of  what  ?" 

"  I  hardly  know." 

"  Thought,  Mag,  is  clear  and  mathematical  in  its 
processes.  You  dreamed  rather  than  thought." 


112  A  Bachelor's  Stciy. 

"Yes,  you  are  right.  I  dreamed — I  wish  I  did 
not — wish  I  could  not.  My  dreams  do  not  make 
me  happy." 

"That's  bad.  The  dreams  of  the  young  should 
be  bright  and  glorious." 

"  Mine  are  sometimes,  and  then  sometimes  so 
strange — I  cannot  tell." 

"  Humph  1  morbid,  I  see.  Too  much  melancholy 
and  sentiment.  I  must  prescribe  for  you." 

"  What,  sir  ?" 

"  A  puzzle.  Something  that  will  crystallize. 
Mathematics  might  do.  It  is  an  old  remedy. 
Those  ancient  Greeks  sharpened  up  their  wits  vastly 
by  its  use.  But  the  clock,  a  stern  autocrat  in  every 
household,  tells  a  tale  of  late  hours  ;  I  saw  just  now 
a  look  of  weariness  cross  your  countenance  ;  and 
Ike  has  been  stamping  in  the  hall  down-stairs  for  ten 
minutes,  full.  Good  night." 

"  Good  night,"  said  Maggie  ;  but  she  first  put  her 
two  hands  silently  in  mine. 


VIII. 

A  salutation  to  our  companion  the  grate — The  heart 
and  color  in  the  olden  life — An  idea  of  Keats  which 
Maggie  carries  out — A  midnight  reading  of  Macbeth 
surrounded  by  certain  dramatic  accessories — Travelling 
down  the  ages — A  hint  to  Maggie  about  Titania  and 
her  folly. 


VIII. 

«  ~1  T  AGGIE." 

JLf-J_  Maggie  looked  up  from  "  David  Cop- 
perfield." 

"Soon,  Mag,  the  summer  sun  will  close  up  the 
grate,  and  extinguish  the  blaze.  What  shall  we  do 
then  ?" 

Maggie  glanced  affectionately  at  the  fire,  and 
with  one  hand  smoothed  the  red  glow  upon  the 
other. 

"  But  the  summer  is  pleasant." 

"  Yes  ;  and  in  the  soft  twilight  of  a  summer's 
day,  when  Zephyrus,  that  gentlest  son  of  Astraeus, 
comes  laden  with  fragrance,  one  drops  dreamily 
away  into  the  great  depths  of  fancy,  as  we  do  now." 

"  And  that  is  as  fine  as  our  evening  fire." 

"  I  love  my  hearth,  and  the  fancies  that  come  to 
life  within  its  genial  circle  ;  so  do  I  love  the  green 
sweetness  of  summer.  But  this  I  claim  :  the 
great  invention  of  man  is  the  chimney.  When 
that  was  conceived,  civilization  became  complete ; 

115 


n6  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

humanity  was  blessed  ;  the  barbaric  and  nomadic 
fled  before  it ;  peace  and  good  will  curled  up  in 
every  wreath  of  smoke  that  issued  from  its  mouth. 
Our  chimneys  open  up  to  heaven,  and  through  them 
ascend  burnt  incense  to  all  the  amenities  of  life. 
An  old  quaint  writer  calls  them  '  windpipes  of 
hospitality.'  You  must  not  ask  me  who,  for  I 
should  have  to  be  frank  and  confess  that  I  have 
quoted  at  second  hand.  I  do  not  know. 

"But  I  see  you  are  reading  Dickens,  the  new 
Shakspeare." 

"  The  new  Shakspeare  ?" 

"  Sacrilege,  some  would  cry  out.  I  do  not  think 
so.  For  these  two  men  alone  have  given  the  world 
characters  so  vital  that  they  live  in  the  heart  and 
brain  of  every  man  ;  and  sayings  so  instinct  with 
truth,  and  responsive  to  universal  needs  and  sympa 
thies,  that  they  vein  and  permeate  the  whole  mass 
of  popular  idioms  and  phrases.  And  I  will  call 
that  man  the  new  Shakspeare,  whose  knowledge  of 
human  nature  is  so  masterly  that  in  this  one  su 
preme  test  he  can  approach  the  delineator  of 
Hamlet." 

"But"— 

"But  me  no  buts.  'But'  is  'the  most  envious 
word  in  the  language.  It  is  a  burr  which  sundry 
people  industriously  stick  into  the  side  of  greatness  ; 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  117 

a  qualification  ^rhich  slips  the  pedestal  from  beneath 
the  feet  of  the  exalted,  and  brings  them  down  to 
our  own  level.  It  is  very  much  like  Touchstone's 
'  If.'  You  can  praise  a  man  ever  so  highly  if  after 
wards  you  stab  him  with  a  '  but.'  Conrad  is  a 
wit  and  a  scholar  ;  he  has  judgment,  taste,  elo 
quence,  refinement ;  he  is  honest  and  upright. 
One  would  think  such  a  character  a  grand  one 
as  the  world  goes.  Not  so  but.  It  counts  all  his 
virtues  on  its  ten  fingers — is  puzzled  for  a  moment, 
then  looks  portentous,  and  cries,  '  but  he  has  no 
depth,'  and  shakes  all  the  ten  virtues  in  the  air  as 
worthless.  '  But '  manages  to  wriggle  itself  into 
the  character  of  the  noblest  ;  it  stops  at  no  fame 
or  worth  ;  it  even  fastens  itself  upon  a  man  like 
Washington.  It  says  ;  yes,  he  was  wise,  prudent, 
just,  magnanimous  ;  but  then,  you  see,  he  had  no 
genius.  No  genius  !  I  look  up  and  down  his 
career  and  discover  this  wonderful  fact — his  judg 
ment,  in  all  its  ten  thousand  trials  was  never  at 
fault !  Find  rae  genius  of  mortal  growth  of  which 
this  magnificent  praise  can  be  uttered,  and  I  am 
down  on  my  knees  to  it ;  I'll  do  salaams  by  the 
week,  sprinkle  my  head  with  ashes,  and  transfer  to 
it  all  that  humility  which  I  now  feel  when  I  stand  in 
the  historical  presence  of  "Washington. 

— "  I   was    thinking    to-day,    Maggie,    about    a 


ii8  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

very  great  want — picturesqueness.  The  world  was 
once  in  bright  colors  and  gay  figures,  but  they 
are  washed  out  ;  the  hues  were  not  fast,  and  the 
harsh  attrition  of  labor  and  necessity  have  rubbed 
them  into  dim  and  undefinable  tints.  The  objective 
or  the  external  no  longer  has  its  day,  and  I  am 
sorry  for  it.  Simple,  honest,  healthy  natures  flour 
ish  with  its  growth  ;  and  if  we  had  a  little  more 
of  the  old  grand  pomp  and  pageantry — the  medie 
val  love  for  the  splendid,  the  rich-toned  and  the 
high-colored,  and  the  ancient  passion  for  life  and 
action,  we  should  all  be  better  and  happier  for  it. 
Upon  my  troth,  I  do  believe  that  the  monster 
now  sacking  and  destroying  the  world  is  Utili 
tarianism,  and  I  pray  daily  for  some  St.  George 
to  appear  and  exterminate  it.  All  the  genial 
richness  of  life  has  succumbed  to  it ;  it  has  white 
washed  red-hearted  life  into  pale-livered  money- 
getting  ;  it  has  substituted  for  broad,  vigorous 
existence,  a  cramped,  narrow,  dull,  colorless  species 
of  respiration,  anatomically  accurate  no  doubt,  but 
meaningless  and  soulless  as  lay  figures.  It  has 
knocked  imagination  on  the  head  ;  and  poets, 
painters,  and  romancers  are  put  in  pound  for  fear 
they  will  transcribe  the  cribbed  and  cabined  limits 
of  a  circumspect,  practical,  and  cautious  utility. 
Life  now  and  once  is  as  pale-sherry  to  old  port ;  or 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  119 

as  a  cold,  white-leaved,  black-lettered  book  to  a  glo 
rious  old  illuminated  missal. 

"  But  all  life  is  a  pendulum,  and  vibrates  to  oppo- 
sites.  The  richness  of  external  life  being  denied, 
some  have  turned  to  the  hot  internal,  or  subjective, 
and  fed  upon  sentiments,  emotions,  and  sensations, 
unnatural  and  distorted,  until  their  hearts  are 
heated  up  as  goose-livers  were  in  epicurean  Rome. 
Startling  consequence,  that  on  one  hand  shows  us 
all  the  bloom  and  heartiness  of  life,  extinct  ;  and 
on  the  other,  sentiment  and  passion  bloated  into 
loathsome  proportions  for  the  want  of  natural  vent 
and  healthy  action  !  We  have  been  like  the  scor 
pion.  Driven  into  a  corner  and  no  escape,  we 
have  turned  our  fangs  inward,  and  stung  ourselves 
to  death." 

"  Are  you  not  severe  upon  the  age  ?" 

"  No.  I  only  slightly  emphasize  my  condemnation. 
I  cry  anathema,  but  know  none  will  heed  me  ;  and 
perhaps  for  that  very  reason  I  pitch  my  voice  a  little 
too  high.  But,  then,  the  nineteenth  century  pats  it 
self  so  complacently,  that  it  deserves  to  have  its 
favorite  bubble  of  '  progress  and  enlightenment ' 
pretty  severely  pricked." 

There  is  a  heat  in  my  blood  that  sometimes  bub 
bles.  I  am  prone  to  wax  warm  upon  a  subject,  and 
have  been  known  to  explode  into  indignation,  to  the 


12O  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

alarm  and  surprise  of  good-natured  friends.  But  as 
there  is  grey  in  my  hair,  so  is  there  silver  in  my 
blood.  Both  are  somewhat  hoar,  and  teach  me  to 
cool  my  temper  in  the  sure  bath  of  silence.  So  dis 
covering  a  foam  and  lash  upon  the  surface  of  my 
thoughts,  I  backed  from  controversial  breakers  into 
the  placid  depths  of  measureless  meditation,  and  was 
stiU. 

Ten  minutes  tripped  along,  and  nothing  spoke  save 
the  clock. 

"  Maggie,"  said  I  at  last,  "  why  don't  you 
speak  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say,  sir." 

"  Candid  and  blunt.  You  hit  the  core  of  a  truth 
not  with  the  point,  but  with  the  haft  of  your  arrow. 
Talk  of  the  weather,  if  of  nothing  else.  An  old, 
stripped,  threadworn  subject,  you  will  say,  sitting  like 
a  beggar  at  the  portal  of  every  man's  tongue  !  A 
mistake — at  least  in  America.  For  with  us,  its 
manifold  and  inscrutable  changes  render  it  always  a 
fresh  and  piquant  matter  for  discussion.  It  never 
ceases  to  astonish,  puzzle  and  bewilder.  Other 
countries  have  some  sort  of  definable  climate — fixed 
like  their  institutions.  But  with  us  Cancer,  and  Cap 
ricorn,  and  all  the  zones  from  Arctic  to  Antarctic, 
and  all  the  winds  born  of  ^Eolus  and  Aurora,  have 
assembled  upon  our  shores,  in  compliance  no  doubt 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  121 

with  our  indiscreet  national  invitation  to  the  op 
pressed  of  all  nations,  here  to  indulge  in  such  free 
license  and  merry  independence,  as  only  some  other 
of  our  guests  can  equal.  In  a  free  country  we  have 
the  freest  of  climates  ;  the  seasons  disregard  their 
allotted  places ;  frost  and  heat  play  at  thimble-rig, 
and  get  blessedly  confused  as  to  the  locality  in  which 
they  really  belong  ;  the  zones  and  the  winds  are  ir 
retrievably  puzzled,  while  the  months  jostle  about 
here  and  there  quite  oblivious  as  to  their  true  place 
in  the  calendar  procession.  In  fact,  our  climate  has 
read  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  and  with  true 
democratic  spirit  defies  law,  order  and  subordination. 
Is  it  a  wonder  then,  if  twenty  millions  of  people  find 
the  vagaries  of  the  weather  an  inexhaustible  source 
of  amusing  and  profitable  discussion  ?  Byron  says, 
somewhere  in  his  naughty  '  Don  Juan,'  that  in  Eng 
land  they  have  no  weather  except  for  three  months 
in  the  year — all  the  rest  is  nothing  but  rain.  Now, 
with  us  there  is  no  lack  of  weather  ;  it  is  perpetually 
weather  ;  the  weather  is  incessantly  up  and  doing  ; 
and  very  much  like  Bottom,  the  weaver,  tries  to  play 
every  part  all  at  once.  Now  it  will  bellow  Boreas 
from  the  North,  and,  in  the  same  breath,  fairly 
'  roar  you  like  a  sucking  dove  from  the  South ' — 
jumping  from  Pyramus  to  Thisbe  with  alacrity  like 
that  of  Osrick's  before  the  melancholy  Prince.  Are 
6 


122  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

you  unread,  and  ask  me  what  melancholy  prince  ?  I 
say  him  whose  last  words  I  seem  to  see  written  on 
every  tombstone,  '  the  rest  is  silence  !' 

"  But  this  weather.  I  apostrophize  :  0  you 
weather — the  sex  is  uncertain  and  the  apostrophe  in 
consequence  rather  awkward,  but — 0  you  weather  ! 
You've  been  an  idle,  vacillating,  shiftless  jade  (but 
jade  is  feminine)  long  enough  ;  we  are  tired  of  your 
tricks  and  pranks.  You  are  old  enough  to  know 
better,  and  to  become  that  sober,  grave,  docile  insti 
tution  the  venerable — bless  my  soul  1  that  draught 
has  blown  the  candle  out ! 

"  I  make  a  discovery.    The  weather  is  feminine  1" 
***** 

The  night  is  rough  ;  the  wind  shakes  the  cottage  ; 
the  rain  comes  drenching  down  ;  the  trees  shriek  in 
the  blast,  and  beat  their  branches  wildly  against  the 
window  panes.  I  cause  Maggie  to  open  "  Lear  "  and 
read  me  this  grand  passage,  while  the  storm  roars  its 
accompaniment  without : 

"  Blow  winds,  and  crack  your  cheeks  !  rage  !  blow ! 
You  cataracts  and  hurricanoes  spout, 
Till  you  have  drenched  our  steeples,  drowned  the  cocks ! 
You  sulphurous  and  thought-executing  fires, 
Vaunt  couriers  to  oak-cleaving  thunderbolts, 
Singe  my  white  head,  and  thou  all-shaking  thunder, 
Strike  flat  the  thick  rotundity  of  the  world !" 

"  Don't  stop  there,  Maggie.     Let  me  have  the 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  123 

fool's  rejoinder — sweet  and  tender  boy,  though  a 
fool." 

MAGGIE.  (Reading},  "  0  nuncle,  court  holy  water 
in  a  dry  house,  is  better  than  this  rain  water  out .  o' 
door.  Good  nuncle,  in,  and  ask  thy  daughter's  bless 
ing  :  here's  a  night  pities  neither  wise  men  nor  fools." 

"  So  the  fool,  Maggie,  hangs  his  jests  upon  the 
hem  of  Lear's  passion.  Shakspeare  always  sets  the 
grand  in  startling  contrast  with  the  grotesque,  and 
heightens  the  terrible  by  graduations  of  bitter 
mirth.  The  shivering  fool's  doleful  jests,  let  in  be 
tween  Lear's  fierce  outbreaks,  stir  mixed  emotions 
and  sympathies,  terror,  pity,  tenderness,  manifold,  ex 
quisite,  and  conflicting.  How,  too,  Lear's  abandon 
ment  seems  intensified  by  the  devotion  of  this  one 
poor  crack-brained  fool  with  his  fantastic  songs,  who 
'  labors  to  out-jest  his  heart-struck  injuries.'  I 
always  loved  the  fool  in  Lear,  and  that  one  brief 
lament  of  the  dying  king — '  And  my  poor  fool  is 
hanged  1'  moistens  my  eyes  when  I  read  it.  Lear, 
Cordelia,  the  Fool  1  In  the  gallery  of  fiction,  I 
hang  green  chaplets  upon  then*  memories." 

"  It  is  strange  how  fond  you  are  of  tragedy." 

"  No  it  is  not.  We  all  like  tragedies  ;  we  begin 
with  '  Red  Riding  Hood,'  and  end  with  '  Hamlet.' 
And  he  who  loves  tragedy,  Maggie,  stalks  a  hundred 
feet  above  the  cheap  affairs  of  the  world. 


124  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

"  But  how  the  storm  rages  !  It  must  have  been  a 
night  like  this,  when  Duncan  was  murdered.  Keats 
once  said,  that  he  would  not  dare  to  read  '  Macbeth ' 
alone  in  a  house,  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  One 
curious  in  sensations  would  find  this  an  occasion  to 
try  it.  In  that  long  loft  of  ours,  for  instance,  Mag 
gie,  with  its  black  fathomless  recesses,  its  vaulted 
roof,  grim  and  dark  with  ribs  of  timber  behind  which 
shadows  lurk,  its  one  uncurtained  window,  against 
which  the  branches  of  the  trees  beat  in  wild  and 
weird-like  shapes  ;  the  rain  on  the  roof,  the  wind 
howling,  shrieking,  moaning  through  crevices — all 
awe-inspiring  enough  at  this  moment,  I'll  be  bound. 
It  were  almost  worth  the  trial." 

"  I  will  do  it,  sir,"  said  Maggie,  jumping  up. 
"  The  murder  scene,  remember." 
"  The  murder  scene  ;  and  I  will  go  alone." 
I  was  at  first  prompted  to  prevent  the  folly  ;  but, 
after  a  moment's  consideration,  I  determined  to  let 
her  whim  have  its  way.     She  took  the  book  and 
candle  firmly  enough,  certainly,   and  walked  away 
without    the    slightest    evidence    of   hesitation    or 
timidity. 

I  could  not  repress  some  anxiety  as  I  reflected 
upon  her  peculiarly  susceptible  and  imaginative  tem 
perament,  but  I  knew  her  at  heart  to  be  exceedingly 
courageous. 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  125 

The  minutes,  however,  passed  ;  the  first  five  slowly, 
the  next  more  swiftly,  and  I  began  to  wonder  at  her 
prolonged  absence.  Fifteen  minutes,  and  still  she 
did  not  return.  I  listened  eagerly,  and  the  silence 
of  a  hushed  house,  so  peculiarly  painful  when  you 
strain  to  catch  every  sound,  ticked  its  low  beat  in 
my  ear,  suggestive  of  hidden  and  mysterious  horrors. 
I  jumped  up  at  last,  and  seized  the  candle,  resolved 
to  follow  her.  I  ran  up  the  stairs  so  swiftly  that  my 
candle  was  extinguished,  but  guided  by  glimmers  of 
a  light  through  the  cracks  of  the  attic  door,  I  hurried 
forward,  threw  it  open,  and  took  two  steps  into  the 
room — two  steps,  and  stood  suddenly  still.  The  place 
was  all  I  have  described  it — vast,  mysterious,  and 
dismal  even  to  terror.  In  the  centre  stood  Maggie 
with  her  single  candle  held  close  to  the  volume  in  her 
hand,  reversing  the  shadows  on  her  face,  and  flinging 
over  it  that  ghastly,  strange  look,  always  given  by 
the  upward  glare  of  a  candle  ;  while  the  dim  light 
seemed  to  roll  back  the  shadows  only  to  pile  them 
up  in  masses  of  opaque  and  Egyptian  density.  But 
Maggie's  face,  attitude,  expression,  and  voice  raised 
in  passionate  declamation,  startled  me.  The  scene, 
with  all  its  ghostly  accessories,  had  not  terrified,  but 
inspired  her.  Her  face  was  white,  her  eyes  flashing 
and  burning  with  such  fire  and  passion  as  are  lighted 


126  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

only  in  the  soul  of  genius,  while  her  voice  poured  out 
in  thrilling  accents  : 

"  Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  '  sleep  no  more  ! 
Macbeth  does  murder  Bleep' — the  innocent  sleep  ; 
Sleep  that  knits  up  the  ravell'd  sleave  of  care, 
The  death  of  each  day's  life,  sore  labor's  bath, 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  Nature's  second  course, 

Chief  nourisher  in  life's  feast ; 

Still  it  cried,  '  sleep  no  more  !'  to  all  the  house  ! 
Glamis  hath  murdered  sleep,  and  therefore  Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more  ;  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more !" 

Accents  so  crowded  with  expression,  so  thrilling 
with  passion  and  feeling,  have  rarely  fallen  from  hu 
man  lips.  But  then  Macbeth  is  not  usually  acted 
with  such  surroundings. 

I  stood  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes  ;  and  then, 
with  a  loud  voice  broke  abruptly  upon  the  recitation. 
Maggie  gave  a  violent  start,  dropped  the  candle  and 
book,  the  light  went  out,  and  Cimmerian  darkness 
came  down  between  us,  out  from  the  dark  panoply 
of  which  burst  peals  of  passionate  and  hysterical 
laughter — one  of  those  sudden  and  intense  reversions 
of  feeling  so  common  to  her  character. 

Alarmed,  I  called  out  to  her  earnestly,  groped 
my  way  until  I  reached  and  seized  her  hand, 
and  then,  as  hastily  as  possible,  led  her  down  to  my 
study. 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  127 

"  By  Jupiter  Tonans,  Maggie,"  said  I,  with  a 
long-drawn  breath,  "we'll  have  no  more  nocturnal 
readings  of  Macbeth  1" 

"  I  wasn't  frightened,  sir." 

"  I  dare  say,  but  I  was,  mightily.  I  never  saw  so 
ghostly  a  place  in  my  life.  In  another  minute  that 
Murder  Scene  would  have  brought  a  host  of  demons, 
goblins,  and  the  like,  out  of  those  mysterious  nooks 
and  impenetrable  corners,  just  as  Der  Freyshutz  in 
voked  them  with  his  charmed  circle  and  incompre 
hensible  incantations." 

"  Why,  sir,  you  don't  believe  in  ghosts  ?" 

"  Dr.  Johnson  said  that  ah1  opinion  is  against  them, 
but  all  belief  for  them.  I  do  believe  in  ghosts,  such 
as  those  that  come  and  nightly  people  my  room  here, 
when  you  are  gone,  and  the  midnight  quickens  the 
visions  of  fancy  into  preternatural  vitality. 

"  Ah,  the  shadows,  then  1  Not  merely  the  loved 
and  sleeping  ones  haunt  me,  but  events  and  impres 
sions  take  to  themselves  human  shapes,  and  mingle 
with  the  shadowy  crowd.  By  the  side  of  re-animated 
realities  move  re-animated  ideals.  Old  boyhood  fan 
cies  and  wild  imaginings  have  palpable  form  and 
historic  shape.  There  appear  in  these  ghostly  visita 
tions  such  fair  forms  and  divine  faces  as  once  existed 
alone  in  summer  dreams.  And  stranger  still,  by 
some  mysterious  reversion,  the  dreamed-of  future  is 


128  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

cast  back  into  dim  shadows  of  a  greatness  that  might 
have  been.  These  are  the  ghosts,  Maggie,  which  I 
not  only  believe  in,  but  love.  I  am  potent  among 
them  as  Manfred  was  among  his  spirits  ;  they  appear 
at  my  command,  and  we  commune  together  ;  but 
the  mystic  compact  between  us,  unlike  that  of  the 
Alpine  recluse,  involves  no  commerce  with  Powers 
who  may  rise  some  day  and  destroy  me.  And  these 
shadows  of  the  past  are  sweeter  and  dearer  to  me 
than  all  the  unhallowed  present. 

"  I  denounce  the  present ;  so  does  every  man  ;  so 
has  all  ages.  Look  back,  and  you  will  find  every 
period  fixing  its  gaze  upon  tradition,  and  worshipping 
those  obscure  virtues  which  loom  vaguely  and  mistily 
in  delusive  proportions,  along  the  backward  paths  of 
history.  Time  is  a  desert  in  which  the  sands  rise 
and  bury  ten  thousand  lowly  things,  leaving  only  the 
grand  and  towering  to  lift  their  eternal  shapes 
against  the  horizon.  Or  to  give  you  another  com 
parison,  Tune  is  a  filterer,  through  which  events  and 
things  are  continually  strained.  Of  the  past  there 
comes  down  to  us  only  a  pure,  sweet  stream  of  re 
membrances,  while  in  the  present  we  drink  of  the 
flood,  thick  with  the  sand  and  mud  that  agitate  and 
ferment  the  passing  currents,  soon,  however,  to  gravi 
tate  to  the  bottom.  The  unwise  hurl  their  anathe 
mas  at  the  literature  and  intellect  of  the  day,  forget- 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  129 

fol  that  time  has  cast  away  the  chaff  of  the  past,  and 
brought  to  us  only  the  grain  ;  forgetful  that  we  are 
to  sift  and  winnow  for  the  future,  just  as  previous 
generations  have  done  for  us. 

"  For  myself,  I  love  the  past,  because  it  is  a  jewel 
set,  shining  upon  me  with  a  calm,  pure  light,  and 
mirroring  in  its  reflected  depths,  such  things  as 
neither  song  nor  eloquence  have  power  to  depict — 
things  which  only  to  re-act  I  would  take  up  '  sandal 
shoon  and  scallop  shell/  and  travel  backward 
through  my  career. 

"  If  that  could  be  so.  If  life  were  two  roads, 
one  down,  and  the  other  up  the  ages.  If  one  could 
turn  from  the  unknown  hereafter  and  wander  back 
ward  amid  the  men  and  things  of  the  Once  1  Should 
I  accept  it  ?  Would  it  be  well  to  travel  forth  along 
known  roads,  amid  giant  ruins  and  grand  memories, 
walking  alone  with  all  the  greatness  of  the  past 
through  her  silent  arcades  ?  Oh,  immensity  of  sen 
sation  1  But  the  future  ?  How  its  unseen  gran 
deur  thrills  and  fascinates  me  !  The  past  has  its 
Babylon,  its  Jerusalem,  its  Athens,  its  Carthage,  its 
Rome,  its  vast  total  of  mighty  accomplishment,  and 
by  these  I  tremble  at  the  possibilities  of  the  future. 
The  very  conjecture  of  all  that  shall  come  to  pass, 
appalls  and  confounds  me.  I  feel  as  one  standing 
upon  the  '  bank  and  shoal  of  time  ;'  the  ocean, 
6* 


130  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

which  is  the  past,  thunders  up  to  my  feet,  the  future 
stretches  its  blank  mysterious  vastness  beyond,  while 
I  stagger  on  my  way,  awe-struck  and  bewildered  by 
both  the  known  and  the  unknown. 

"  But  learning  is  nothing  more  than  a  man's  eyes 
in  the  back  of  his  head,  with  their  gaze  forever  fixed 
upon  the  travelled  road,  while  his  face  is  turned 
sightless  against  a  walled  up  future,  and  events  slip 
by  under  his  feet  and  startle  him  when  they  are  past. 
Learning  will  not  deserve  to  be  crowned,  until  it 
can  read  forward  as  well  as  backward." 

"  I  do  not  understand  what  you  say  ;  I  love  to 
think  of  the  future.  It  is  what  I  dream  about." 

"  Fancy,  Mag,  creates  a  Utopian  future ;  it 
makes  to  itself,  paradises  in  which  it  disports — but 
it  steals  all  its  materials  from  the  past." 

"  Not  mine,  for  I  have  no  past." 

"  Therefore  your  dreams  are  fantastic  imaginings, 
bearing  no  human  or  earthly  complexion ;  they 
pierce  nothing,  prophesy  nothing,  but  hang  in  mid 
air  and  are  made  of  sunbeams  and  cobwebs.  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  Titania  ?" 

"  Who  was  she,  sir  ?" 

"  A  queen." 

"  Of  what  country  1" 

"  Eden,  I  think.  Her  throne  was  a  rose-bud,  her 
palace  a  white  lily.  Oberon  was  her  king  and  con- 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  131 

sort ;  Puck,  their  prime  minister.  In  a  strange 
dream  once,  her  eyelids  having  been  washed  by  juice 
of  a  flower  pierced  by  Cupid's  shaft,  she  fell  in  love 
with  a  donkey." 

Maggie  flushed.  "  What  then,  sir  ?" 
"  Look  to  your  dreams,  that's  all.  Fancy  is  apt 
to  be  vagrant  and  gipsyish  ;  it  takes  sometimes  to 
the  fantastic,  and  monstrous — in  short,  falls  in  love 
with  donkeys,  and  awakes  from  its  dreams  down 
cast  and  chop-fallen.  [The  penetrating  reader  sees 
my  drift ;  I  am  thinking  all  this  time  of  Maggie's 
dramatic  power  so  startingly  displayed  in  the  old 
loft,  and  without  showing  her  which  way  my  fear 
points,  I  am  trying  to  sound  a  caution  in  her  ears 
which  may  at  some  hereafter  tune  forewarn  and  fore 
arm.  She  is  impulsive  and  has  tragic  passion — how 
far  from  right,  then,  am  I  in  fearing,  to  a  tempera 
ment  like  hers,  the  most  dangerous  kind  of  donkey — 
a  love  of  the  stage  ?  Power  and  taste  h'ke  to  travel 
the  same  road ;  and  when  Maggie  comes  to  know 
the  institution,  as  she  will  some  day,  the  powers 
within  her  will  be  touched  as  with  fire.  Some  such 
path  she  must  climb  ;  the  ordinary  would  kill  her  ; 
but  other  than  this,  with  its  myriad  foot-falls  I  must 
guide  her  to.]  We  all  of  us,  Mag,  go  through 
Titania's  folly.  I  have  in  my  time  been  enamored 
of  a  good  many  donkeys — and  the  recollection  of 


132  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

them  cannot  be  erased  from  my  tablets.  I  cannot 
forget ;  they  stick  like  thorns  in  the  sides  of  my 
self-complacency ;  they  tingle  in  my  cheek  even 
now. 

"  Men  may  sin  consciously,  systematically,  and  be 
come  hardened  to  it,  yet  be  tender-hearted  at  remem 
brance  of  their  contretemps,  for  remorse  will  prick 
more  sharply  at  the  recollection  of  a  faux  pas  than 
of  an  innocent  wronged,  or  a  widow  nndone.  A 
man  will  cut  a  throat,  and  blush  at  a  word  mis 
spoken.  The  sins  against  society,  as  the  world  goes, 
overtop  the  sins  against  morals.  The  fact  is,  Mag  " 
— I  turned  towards  her  with  the  emphasis  finger  up 
lifted — she  was  asleep. 


IX. 

A  glance  at  Shady  Side — A  summer  reminiscence— 
A  new  sobriquet  which  I  like — A  story  of 

THE  MONOMANIAC — 

Something  about  novels  old  and  new — A  few  private 
but  rather  dangerous  sentiments. 


183 


IX. 

~]\  /f"  AGGIE,"  said  I,  stretching  my  feet  upon 
.IT JL  the  fender,  and  preparing  for  a  long  even 
ing's  chat,  "  the  morning  was  so  fine  that  I  took  a 
long  ride  in  the  brisk,  but  pleasant  air.  Even 
'  Shady  Side '  where  I  paused  briefly,  looked  warm 
and  pleasant  notwithstanding  the  naked  boughs  and 
the  brown  sod.  The  little  river  rushed  dun  and  sad, 
however,  and  seemed  to  mourn  for  the  flowers." 
"  That  '  Shady  Side '  is  your  passion,  sir." 
"It is.  Nature  everywhere  is  my  mistress;  amid 
the  slopes  and  shady  dells  of  that  wooded  bank,  when 
the  summer  sun  is  in  the  heavens,  I  am  happy  al 
ways.  Few  know  it ;  rarely  have  other  shadows  than 
my  own  been  thrown  across  its  green  glades.  I  re 
joice  that  its  seclusion  is  so  perfect,  and  I  wander  in 
and  out,  up  and  down,  with  a  certain  sense  of  mas 
tership,  as  if  I  were  monarch  of  the  scene  It  rarely 
occurs  to  me  that  it  is  the  property  of  John  Jellaway, 
Builder.  Indeed,  if  John  Jellaway,  Builder,  should 
appear  some  day,  and  lay  his  hand  upon  it  and  call 

135 


136  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

it  his,  I  should  be  tempted  to  ignore  title-deeds,  and 
all  such  miserable  red-tape  affairs,  and  defy  John 
Jellaway,  Builder,  to  his  face." 

"  I  think  that  I  like  the  beauties  of  nature,  too," 
said  Maggie,  "  yet  I  am  surprised  that  you  do  not 
find  them  monotonous — you  who  have  seen  so  much, 
and  are  so  wise." 

"I  am  a  philosopher,  Maggie,  by  my  winter 
hearth  ;  but  in  the  summer  tune  I  am  such  a  rustic 
gentleman  as  can  be  found  upon  any  green  hill-side 
in  the  country,  with  an  ambition  for  big  cabbages, 
and  a  worthy  emulation  for  miraculous  pumpkins.  I 
love  my  garden,  my  vines,  my  nurselings,  and  the 
creatures  that  flourish  around  my  threshold  ;  but 
more  than  these,  I  love  the  reverie  and  the  noontide 
dreams — the  woodside,  the  brook,  the  siesta  under 
nodding  elms,  the  far-off  haze  of  sleeping  moun 
tains,  the  smell  of  hay,  the  light  and  shade  in  forest 
masses,  the  songs  of  birds,  the  flower-jewels  which 
nature  hangs  upon  her  broad  bosom,  the  glorious 
emerald  of  the  fields,  the  rich  shades  of  the  forest 
depths,  the  white  clouds  against  the  fathomless  blue 
of  heaven  !  To  him  who  loves  these  things,  Mag, 
there  is  no  monotony,  but  ever-shifting  variety  and 
change.  To  my  eyes  there  is  a  new  picture  pre 
sented  every  morning,  when,  like  Guiderius  and 
Arviragus  in  Shakspeare's  '  Cymbeline,'  I  stoop 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  137 

through  my  low  door-way  and  salute  the  heavens. 
There  are  the  same  general  outlines  it  is  true,  but  to 
my  tutored  perception,  new  combinations  continu 
ally  arrange  themselves  before  me.  I  have  a  trick 
of  separating  and  framing  in  bits  of-  a  scene — of  see 
ing  one  object  amid  many  objects,  and  grouping 
around  it  those  accessories  best  suited  to  its  disposi 
tion  and  effect,  and  by  an  act  of  will,  shutting  out 
from  my  vision  whatever  detracts  or  destroys.  A 
prospect  is  rarely  one  wide  grand  view  to  me — it  is  a 
gallery  of  pictures,  a  collection  of  fragments  and  iso 
lated  portions  set  in  frameworks  of  my  own.  Some 
times  the  picture  is  a  group  of  cattle — that  always  pic 
turesque  adjunct  to  a  landscape  ;  sometimes  a  single 
tree  photographed,  as  I  may  term  it,  apart  from  its 
fellows,  upon  the  retina  of  the  eye ;  sometimes  a  group 
of  rocks  ;  frequently  a  cluster  of  trees  in  the  forest. 
In  my  loved  '  Shady  Side  '  I  have  innumerable  such 
pictures,  which  I  go  to  frequently  and  pause  before 
— bits  of  the  opposite  shore  of  the  stream ;  some  lean 
ing,  fantastically-shaped  trees  ;  mellow  patches  of 
sun-light,  flung  amid  dense  shades;  openings  in  the 
tree-tops,  where  the  blue  of  the  sky  seems  to  come 
down  to  the  green  fringes  of  the  branches  ;  dark 
pools,  hemmed  in  with  wild  thickets  ;  park-like  slopes, 
flecked  with  sun-drops;  meadows  that  open  in  a  rich 
breadth  of  light  from  your  stand-point  amid  shrub 


138  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

and  shadow;  cascade-bits  of  the  stream,  where  the 
water  tumbles  and  foams,  and  the  shore  rises  tangled 
and  wild  ;  brook  expanses  (of  which  there  are  many 
in  this  neighborhood),  with  jutting  shore,  overhang 
ing  rock,  picturesque  bridges! 

"  These  are  the  things  that,  with  me,  disarm  mo 
notony — that,  with  the  ever-marching  seasons  and 
the  progress  towards  summer  maturity  or  autumn 
decay,  present  day  by  day  new  colors  and  forms. 
My  pictures  not  only  change  in  themselves,  but  I  am 
always  seeing  them  in  new  lights;  and  in  that  musing, 
dreamy  way  of  mine,  I  daily  walk  around  them,  dis 
covering  differences,  observing,  comparing,  and  watch 
ing  the  changes  and  contrasts  as  they  occur." 

"  Why,  sir,  you  would  make  a  rural  poet." 

"  Ah,  Mag,  a  love  of  these  things  is  an  inborn  and 
instinctive  passion  in  the  hearts  of  the  sons  of  Adam. 
It  is  the  '  grand  old  gardener's '  love  of  Eden 
dimly  perpetuated  through  all  his  race — a  shadowy, 
haunting,  reminiscence  of  that  first  paradise. 

"  Do  you  know,  Maggie,  the  name  that  some  of 
my  neighbors  have  got  for  me  ?" 

"  No,  sir.     What  can  it  be  ?" 

"  They  call  me  Jacques — melancholy  Jacques. 
How  this  name  became  suggested  to  them  I  cannot 
tell,  for  I  know  of  none  who  are  readers  of  Shak- 
speare.  One  more  learned  than  the  rest  may  possi- 


A  Bachelor's  Story. 


bly  be  familiar  with  the  great  poet,  but  the  likelihood 
is  that  some  city  spark  has  discovered  my  habits  of 
rumination  and  love  of  philosophic  reverie,  and  pro 
posed  the  sobriquet.  Whoever  he  may  be,  I  thank 
him.  '  As  you  Like  It  '  is  a  frequent  poem  in  my 
hands  (as  it  ought  to  be  in  those  of  all  others  who,  like 
me,  are  wedded  to  woodland  life),  and  the  melan 
choly  meditations  of  rare  old  Jacques  hit  my  humors 
perfectly.  How  often  do  I,  like  him, 

"  '  Lay  along 
Under  an  oak,  whose  antique  root  peeps  out  —  ' 

And  moralize  upon  the  '  body  of  country,  city, 
court  !'  I,  too,  '  suck  melancholy  out  of  a  song/ 
and  '  love  it  better  than  laughing.'  I  differ  only 
from  Jacques  in  having  a  little  of  the  lover's 
melancholy,  which  he  disclaims  ;  but  mainly,  like 
his,  mine  is  compounded  of  many  simples,  extracted 
from  many  objects,  and  the  '  sundry  contemplation 
of  my  travels,  in  which  my  rumination  often  wraps 
me,  is  a  most  humorous  sadness.' 

"  But  as  usual,  Mag,  I  have  drifted  a  long  way 
from  the  point  for  which  I  set  out.  I  begun  to  tell 
you  of  my  morning  ride.  It  led  me  up  a  mountain 
to  which  I  sometimes  wander  ;  and  on  the  brink 
of  one  of  its  grand  precipices,  where  the  torn,  jagged, 
but  upright  wall  scaled  from  the  bed  of  a  rocky 


140  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

stream  hundreds  of  feet,  I  recalled  a  little  sketch, 
set  down  years  ago,  from  facts  which  fell  in  my 
way,  and  I  resolved  to  read  it  to  you  to-night. 
Will  you  listen  ?" 

"  A  story  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  may  call  it  a  story." 

"  Then  I  shall  listen  with  all  my  heart." 

"  And  I  begin.     I  will  call  it 

"  '  THE  MONOMANIAC.' 

"  An  old  man,  not  so  old  as  threescore,  nor  so 
young  as  to  escape  whitening  locks  and  the  ine 
vitable  crow-feet,  very  sad  in  manner,  abstracted 
perpetually  in  a  meditative  mood,  which  gave  a 
ruminant  glance  to  olive-shaped,  dreamy  eyes  ;  sim 
ple  and  unprosperous  in  attire  ;  a  slow  walker,  with 
his  eyes  on  the  pebbles  two  yards  ahead  of  his 
feet — came  every  day  to  the  edge  of  a  precipice  two 
hundred  feet  high,  and  standing  upon  its  brink, 
endeavored  to  wind  his  resolution  up  to  the  point 
of  performance — essayed  to  fling  himself  from  his 
rocky  throne  into  death  and  eternity.  But  his 
courage,  wound  too  high  for  its  tender  spring,  daily 
gave  way  ;  the  heart  refused  to  comply  ;  the  flesh 
was  weak,  and  shrunk  from  that  harsh  contact  with 
the  flinty  rocks,  which  the  will  had  assigned  it  to 
endure. 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  141 

"  Weary  of  life,  poor,  sad,  without  friends,  a  torn 
link  from  a  chain  of  lost  associations,  the  future 
offered  only  such  dull  monotony,  and  promised  merely 
such  prolongation  of  the  terrible  sadness  and  weari 
ness  which  had  gathered  about  his  heart,  that  he 
longed  to  return  the  unprofitable  gift  of  life,  and 
to  escape  either  to  everlasting  silence,  or  to  a  world 
where  existence  would  be  more  tolerable  than  in 
this.  But,  unhappy  man  !  He  had  neither  the 
courage  to  live  nor  the  courage  to  die.  With  the 
rising  of  every  sun  he  went  forth  with  fresh  reso 
lution  ;  with  the  setting  of  every  sun  he  came  back 
with  his  head  upon  his  breast — his  purpose  unac 
complished. 

"  '  It  is  so  terrible/  he  would  murmur,  looking 
down  the  fearful  space  ;  '  I  dare  not  attempt 
the  cold  plunge  into  the  air — I  shrink  from  that 
downward,  arrowy  cleaving,  with  the  still  air  rush 
ing  by  like  a  gale  ;  then,  too,  the  sudden  up-coming 
of  the  earth — the  crash  of  the  rocks  through  your 
brain — the  terrible  force  of  a  world  impelled  upon 
you — for  so,  I  have  learned,  are  the  sensations  of 
a  falling  man.  Yet,  in  these  long  distances,  life 
does  not  hold,  some  assert,  until  the  bottom  is 
reached  ;  the  blood  falls  into  the  head,  brimming  it 
to  the  chin,  and  insensibility,  catching  you  as  you 
fall,  wraps  the  body  in  an  impenetrable  panoply, 


142  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

and  drops  it  with  tender  unconsciousness  upon  the 
rocks.' 

"  And  so,  day  after  day,  he  took  his  stand  upon 
the  edge  of  the  precipice,  looked  wistfully  down 
to  the  dwindled  shrubs,  and  while  he  longed  for 
the  courage  to  take  the  fatal  plunge,  curiously 
speculated  and  philosophized  upon  the  deed,  upon 
the  Hereafter  into  which  it  would  usher  him,  and 
upon  the  suffering  he  would  experience  by  the  way. 

"  '  How  swift  !'  he  exclaimed  once  as  he  dropped 
a  stone  over  the  precipice  and  watched  it  as  it  fell ; 
'  the  time  is  almost  measureless.  If  the  way  were 
lined  with  flaming  swords,  the  ordeal  would  not  be 
severe.  A  spring — a  quick  spasm — and  eternity. 
Yet  that  time  and  space,  so  short  to  the  calm 
looker-on,  would  be  an  age  to  the  victim,  for  our 
measures  and  divisions  of  time  convey  no  indication 
of  duration — ages  and  moments,  years  and  hours 
have  their  sensible  span  in  the  circumstance  of  the 
man  only.  An  hour  to  the  prisoner  is  the  slow  du 
ration  of  sixty  times  sixty  agonizing  and  prolonged 
respirations — to  the  lover  a  swift  ecstasy. 

" '  But  ah,  courage  is  all.  Even  insensibility  is 
better  than  this  over-keen  perception  of  possibili 
ties.  If  I  could  stunt  my  imagination,  give 
my  speculations  wings,  and  see  before  me  but 
the  one  clear  fact,  that  death  would  quickly  fol- 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  143 

low  the  plunge,  I  should  master  my  irresolution  at 
once,  and  consummate  the  purpose  now.  But  alas  ! 
I  see  too  far,  too  much  ;  my  imagination  fills  up  the 
brief  period  between  the  leap  and  the  death  with 
innumerable  horrors  ;  it  lines  the  way  with  undis 
covered  and  unknown  agonies  ;  it  divides  the  seconds 
of  time  into  thousands  of  sub-divisions,  and  for  each 
sub-division  it  conjures  up  and  creates  a  special  and 
perceptible  sensation.  But  even  if  all  that  my  fancy 
pictures  were  true,  I  should  brave  them  if  I  pos 
sessed  the  courage.  And  there  it  is.  How  well  do 
I  know  my  weakness  !  From  the  beginning  all  that 
I  have  suffered  I  trace  back  to  this  one  great  need — 
the  misery  which  prompts  me  to  end  my  career,  and 
the  weakness  which  compels  me  to  live  on  and  en 
dure,  each  arises  from  the  same  cause — a  timid 
heart !' 

"  The  old  man's  head  fell  upon  his  breast,  and  he 
thought  of  his  past — of  that  irresolution  manifested 
through  all  his  life,  which  had  robbed  him  of  much 
good,  and  held  forever  the  prizes  of  life  within  his 
eager  gaze,  but  beyond  his  feeble  up-reaching. 
Others  had  plucked  up  honor  by  the  locks,  while  he 
stood  upon  the  brink  of  the  flood  letting  'I  dare 
not  wait  upon  I  would.'  Boldness,  courage,  tena 
cious  adherence  to  chosen  paths,  had  brought  other 
men  mellow  and  fruitful  autumns — with  him  a  thou- 


144  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

sand  paths  abandoned,  enterprises  of  pith  and  mo 
ment  foregone,  all  because  of  a  vacillating  weakness, 
and  timid  shrinking  from  consequences,  from  endur 
ance,  and  from  action  ! 

"  He  was  a  philosopher,  curious  and  fine  in  specula 
tion,  subtle  in  reason,  admirable  in  the  reach  and 
breadth  of  his  intelligence  ;  but  allied  to  his  fine 
mental  organization  was  great  physical  and  moral 
timidity.  He  lacked  the  courage  and  the  motive  for 
exertion  ;  he  shrunk  from  the  collisions  and  an 
tagonisms  of  the  world.  Most  thoroughly  unfitted 
for  the  brisk  pursuits  and  active  struggles  of  life, 
chance  had  thrown  him  into  the  very  midst  of  its 
whirl  and  clamor.  Thus  in  his  old  age  we  find  him 
with  an  unhallowed  past,  an  unhopeful  future,  and  a 
present  which  bore  down  upon  him  with  a  weight 
almost  beyond  endurance.  He  had  long  since  slipped 
from  the  active  avenues  of  life,  and  hid  himself  in  soli 
tude  ;  his  only  desire  was  to  die  ;  his  philosophy  had 
reasoned  from  the  old  Roman  view,  and  sanctioned 
self-destruction  as  the  privilege  of  his  race  ;  he 
lacked  only  the  ability  to  execute  that  which  his 
heart  desired  and  his  reason  sanctioned. 

"So  the  old  man  hovered  about  the  precipice. 
Weeks,  months  passed  away,  and  even  a  second 
summer  found  him  daily  ascending  and  descending 
the  mountain,  as  infirm  of  purpose  as  at  the  begin- 


A  Bachelor's  Story. 


ning.  But  the  contemplation  of  one  object  had 
unsettled  his  mind  a  little  ;  his  eye  was  unsteady  in 
its  gaze  ;  his  walk  was  irregular  ;  his  manner  more 
dejected  than  ever.  At  times  his  fancy  would  now 
give  a  fantastic  direction  to  his  thoughts.  He 
evinced  great  eagerness  in  the  phenomena  of  falling 
bodies  ;  he  searched  for  the  written  experience  of 
those  who  had  survived  great  falls  ;  he  acted  and 
reacted,  in  imagination,  the  sensations  so  likely  to  be 
experienced  ;  he  pictured  ever  his  crushed  form  upon 
the  rocks,  with  upturned  face  white  in  the  sunlight, 
and  very  strangely  seemed  to  feel  a  horrible  pleasure 
in  the  fancy. 

"  One  day,  as  he  lay  stretched  upon  a  rock  which 
projected  over  the  precipice,  a  lad  from  the  village 
came  wandering  near  in  search  of  wild  berries.  It 
was  an  open-faced,  frank-eyed  boy  of  about  fourteen 
years.  The  solitude  of  the  monomaniac  was  so 
rarely  disturbed,  that  at  the  first  sound  of  the  boy's 
foot  he  evinced  vexation  ;  but  suddenly  brighten 
ing  up  with  a  new  thought,  he  called  the  lad  to 
approach. 

"  '  Boy,'  said  he,  '  how  far  can  you  fling  a 
stone  ?' 

"  '  Oh  !  ever  so  far,  sir,'  replied  the  lad,  with  a 
proud  look. 

"  '  Let  me  see  you.  Throw  it  as  high  above  you 
1 


146  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

as  you  caii — let  it  fall  over  the  edge  of  the  pre 
cipice.' 

"  The  boy  very  eagerly  ran  to  pick  up  a  stone,  and 
the  old  man,  with  his  finger  upon  his  pulse,  watched 
the  missile  as  it  flew  high  in  the  air,  until  it  reached 
its  utmost  height,  and  seemed  to  pause  suspended  for 
an  instant,  and  then  swiftly  descending,  plunged  into 
the  gulf  of  space  far  below  the  watchers. 

"  '  Not  ten  pulses  1'  muttered  the  old  man  ;  '  and 
yet  better  if  it  had  been  longer.  The  speed  is  too 
swift — the  heart  would  start  and  snap  at  such 
velocity.' 

"  '  Shall  I  throw  another  ?'  inquired  the  boy,  who 
thought  his  companion  a  jolly  old  fellow. 

"  '  Roll  that  large  stone  over  the  edge.  Stop,  I 
will  help  you.  It  is  too  heavy  for  one.' 

"  The  man  and  the  lad  tugged  at  the  rock,  by 
strained  muscle  got  it  to  the  edge,  and  toppled  it 
over.  As  it  slipped  from  the  brink  the  old  man  fell 
upon  his  knees,  and,  with  head  bent  down,  watched 
the  descent.  The  rock  rushed  with  a  noisy  whir, 
struck  a  projecting  tree  near  the  bottom,  and  bent  it 
up  like  a  twig,  bounded  off  and  fell  upon  the  angular 
point  of  a  rock  with  a  concussion  that  startled  the 
listeners  above,  and  split  the  piece  in  twain. 

"  '  Terrible  !'  exclaimed  the  monomaniac  with  a 
shudder,  but  with  his  gaze  eagerly  fastened  upon  the 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  147 

spot.  '  If  a  body — how  mangled,  crushed,  battered 
— nothing  human  in  its  semblance  would  be  re 
tained  !  But  the  blow  would  eject  the  spirit  at 
once — the  soul  would  fly  out  as  body  and  rock  came 
together.  The  terror  after  all  is  in  the  spectator  ; 
the  horror,  the  agony,  the  suffering  in  the  imagina 
tion  and  the  sympathy  of  those  who  look  upon  the 
tragedy  ;  to  the  actor,  nothing  but  a  tingling,  and 
he  drops  into  spaces  which  are  infinite — he  cleaves 
into  eternity  like  an  arrow,  he  shoots  among  the 
stars  a  soul  fresh  from  earth,  warm  yet  with  the 
pulse  of  its  old  life.  How  clearly  it  is  so,'  he  mut 
tered  ;  '  how  easy  to  make  this  respiration  the  last  1 
Yes,  I  will  do  so.  This  boy  shall  watch  me  as  we 
watched  the  stone.  The  horror  will  all  be  his  ;  he 
shall  suffer,  and  shrink,  and  cover  his  eyes  ;  and  I 
shall  only  take  wings  and  fly  into  futurity.' 

"  He  laughed  low  and  fearfully.  Presently  he  re 
sumed  :  '  It  was  well  thought.  To  make  him  the 
sufferer — to  have  another  by  to  experience  all  the 
pain.  Now  I  will  do  it.  The  impulse  has  come  at 
last.  Bear  me  quickly,  you  pleasant  airs,  to  my 
doom.' 

"  He  stood  up  close  on  the  verge,  with  his  back  to 
the  frightful  gulf,  closed  his  eyes,  and  appeared  to 
prepare  for  the  plunge.  Suddenly  the  arms  of  the 
boy  were  thrown  about  his  limbs. 


148  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

"  '  Oh  !  sir,  sir,  don't !  don't !'  cried  the  boy,  very 
white  and  with  spread  eyes.  '  You  will  kill  your 
self.  I  am  sure  you  will.  Please,  sir,  don't.' 

"  The  man  tried  to  shake  off  the  grasp  of  the  boy  ; 
but  the  lad,  though  terrified  at  the  horrible  attempt 
at  self-destruction,  was  really  courageous,  and  clung 
firmly  to  his  knees.  The  struggle  was  brief.  The 
elder's  resolution  faded  away  like  the  extinguishing 
of  a  candle  ;  he  grew  dizzy  and  sick,  and  walked 
away  from  the  danger  and  the  temptation. 

"  The  boy,  not  insensible  to  the  horrible,  and  loving 
after  the  fashion  of  other  humans  whatever  afforded 
him  a  sensation,  came  eagerly  to  the  cliff  the  next 
day.  He  found  the  old  man  there,  with  his  brow 
upon  his  hand,  so  abstracted  that  the  boy  had  to 
put  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder  before  his  presence 
became  known. 

" '  Ah  !'  said  the  elder,  looking  up.  '  It  is  you. 
I  recollect.  What  is  your  name,  lad  ?' 

"  '  John  Coombs.' 

"  '  John,'  rising  and  whispering  very  eagerly  in  his 
ear,  '  did  you  ever  fall  from  a  high  place  ?  from  a 
church  steeple,  say  ?' 

"  '  No,  sir,'  replied  the  boy,  laughing  ;  '  why,  that 
would  kill  a  fellow,  wouldn't  it  ?' 

"  '  No,  no,'  said  the  old  man  ;  '  for  I  fell  last  night 
down  a  space  ten  tunes  higher  than  the  highest 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  149 

steeple,  and  here  I  am.  Alive  1  am  I  not  ?  This  is 
life,  boy  ;  is  it  not  ?' 

"  The  lad  stared  and  was  puzzled. 

'"I  will  tell  you  my  fall ;  I  know  the  way  every 
inch.  First  I  shot  out  into  the  air,  and  my  heart 
leaped  with  such  a  bound  it  nearly  burst ;  then  I 
felt  myself  cutting  through  an  atmosphere  armed 
with  sharp  points,  and  through  my  frame,  from  head 
to  toe,  ran  a  cold  current  which  tingled  in  the  ex 
tremities  ;  then  my  head  grew  swollen,  and  around 
it  was  wound  a  band  which  cut  into  my  brain.  My 
head  grew  hot  while  my  heart  grew  cold — so  terribly, 
horribly  cold.  Then  a  bloody  film  spread  over  my 
eyes ;  the  sun  looked  blood-shot,  the  earth  like  a 
battle-field,  and  the  sky  pressed  down  and  around 
me.  Then  my  breast  became  encircled  with  a 
bandage,  below  which  I  could  not  breathe  ;  respira 
tion  stopped  short  in  the  neck  ;  I  could  only  get  brief, 
agonizing  gasps.  My  limbs  grew  suddenly  heavy 
and  of  dead  weight,  my  head  expanded  almost  to 
bursting,  and  the  blood  trickled  from  ears,  nose  and 
mouth,  but  still  down — down  I  clove  through  the 
air.  It  parted  before  me  like  waves,  and  closed  be 
hind  with  a  palpable  rush.  Sound  became  magni 
fied  ;  my  nerves  became  touched  as  with  electricity  ; 
sight  alone  was  confused.  First,  great  gaunt,  pen 
dant  trees  swept  by — it  was  down  a  rocky  precipice 


150  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

— then  huge,  seamed,  riven  rocks  ;  then  smooth-hewn 
surfaces,  rain-stained  with  a  million  storms  ;  then 
jutting,  gnarled,  angular  trees,  fantastic  and  hideous 
in  form  ;  then  vines  and  low  shrubs,  wild,  tangled 
and  clinging  to  crevices  ;  then  chasms,  where  eternal 
shadows  clung  ;  then  suddenly,  up-sweeping  with  pre 
cipitate  and  heedless  force,  rushing  through  the  air 
with  a  velocity  horrible  to  behold,  came  the  earth, 
and  with  terrible  force  it  crushed  through  my  body — 
through  and  through— mangling  and  battering  it,  then 
suddenly  left  me  floating  beyond  in  a  serene  and 
beautiful  atmosphere.' 

"  '  A  dream,  sir,  wasn't  it  ?'  whispered  the  boy, 
awed  by  the  tale. 

"  '  A  dream  ?  So,  possibly.  Yet  it  was  fearfully 
real — real  enough  to  have  been  true.  All  the 
agony,  the  suffering,  the  prolonged  terror,  and  no 
result !  no  death  after  all  !  It  is  monstrous,  boy. 
A  life  drops  off  into  eternity  every  second — since  we 
have  been  talking  a  good  hundred  or  so  have  sped 
into  heaven  or  hell,  and  yet  I,  who  long  to  go,  can 
not  escape  from  my  prison.' 

"  '  Oh,  my  !'  said  the  lad,  choking  down  certain 
tendencies  to  fright,  and  trying  to  think  the  affair 
only  a  joke,  '  why  don't  you  shoot  yourself  ?  I 
would.' 

" '  That's  not  it/  replied  the  old  man,  testily.     '  I 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  151 

know  what  my  doom  must  be  eventually.  There  is 
my  grave.'  He  pointed  to  the  foot  of  the  preci 
pice.  '  It  is  not  the  fact  I  doubt,  lad  ;  I  know 
well  enough,  sooner  or  later,  that  my  ribs  and  limbs 
must  be  broken  on  the  rocks  below — but  I  would 
hasten  the  hour.  I  would  have  it  now,  and  it  can 
not  be." 

"  The  boy  began  to  fear  that  his  strange  compan 
ion  would  make  another  attempt  to  throw  himself 
over  the  precipice,  and  while  he  half  wished  he 
had  stayed  away,  experienced  no  little  of  the 
strange  fascination  which  so  mastered  the  elder. 
Indeed  that  boy,  healthy  in  his  sympathies,  but 
with  certain  uncultured  appetites,  might,  under  cir 
cumstances  conducive,  be  educated  into  the  old 
man's  accomplice  and  sympathizer.  In  the  heart 
of  the  lad,  although  a  green  sapling  seemingly 
sound  to  the  core,  could  rapidly  have  sprung  up  a 
love  of  blood  and  death — a  coarse,  vile,  dark  passion 
for  torture,  suffering  and  blood — such  a  passion  as 
animated  the  spectators  of  old  gladiatorial  contests. 

"  How  easy  to  see  the  passion  working  !  In  that 
boy's  heart — pure,  frank,  fresh,  and  true — lay  pas 
sions  dormant  :  the  passions  of  avarice,  of  power, 
of  lust,  of  blood  !  Not  one  that  could  not  be  stim 
ulated,  not  one  that  had  not  already  lifted  its  hydra- 
head,  half  waking  at  some  fierce  temptation — 


152  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

not  one  that  had  not  already  stirred  its  coils,  and 
prepared  for  that  struggle  for  mastery,  so  sure  to 
come  ere  manhood  crown  him.  And  if  the 
tempter  played  upon  these  passions,  fed  them, 
pricked  them  into  activity,  how  soon  out  of  his 
calm  blue  eyes  would  flash  the  blood-red  glance  of 
Murder  ?  how  soon  would  his  brain  grow  hot  with 
the  thirst  of  Cam  ? 

"  It  is  not  difficult  to  image  this  development, 
nor  do  we  in  supposing  it  to  do  violence  to  truth 
and  nature.  May  Heaven  be  blessed  for  tempta 
tions  withheld  1  We  have  many,  and  sin  vastly, 
but  the  good  that  is  in  us  is  too  much  the  unfretted 
surface  of  a  stormless  sea.  When  the  winds  rise, 
our  frail  crafts  of  Yirtue  sink  swiftly,  or  float  tat 
tered  wrecks  upon  the  waves. 

"  But  the  old  man  was  infatuated,  not  depressed  ; 
he  sought  no  evil  upon  the  boy ;  and  the  lad 
himself  was  in  the  main  hearty  and  true.  Like 
most  lads,  his  sensibilities  were  unrefined,  but  his 
impulses  were  genial,  robust,  and  sound,  and  these 
got  the  best  of  a  temporary  hot  flush  of  morbid 
feeling.  Moreover,  in  his  own  way,  he  was  both 
intelligent  and  shrewd.  Seeing,  or  fancying  that 
he  saw,  a  movement  on  the  part  of  the  monomaniac 
which  threatened  the  consummation  of  the  tragedy, 
he  suddenly  clapped  his  hands,  and  shouted  : 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  153 

"  '  Oh  !  look  there  !  Ain't  it  funny  ?'  and  darting 
up  a  little  bank,  seized  an  odd  mountain  growth,  and 
waved  it  before  the  eyes  of  his  companion.  '  Isn't 
it  queer,  sir  ?'  continued  he,  with  a  bright  glance 
and  a  laugh. 

"  The  old  man  was  curiously  learned  in  the  sciences; 
his  attention  was  caught,  his  interest  excited.  An 
old,  long  dormant  passion  was  faintly  revived,  and 
he  begun  with  a  manner  gradually  increasing  in 
warmth,  to  explain  to  his  listener  the  mysteries 
of  the  plant.  The  boy  was  receptive,  and  listened 
wide-mouthed  to  the  learned  exposition  of  the 
scholar.  The  fresh,  clear  magnetism  of  the  boy 
had  aroused  a  responsive  feeling  in  the  elder  the 
first  hour  they  met,  and  now  this  new  relation 
intensified  the  sympathy.  The  old  man,  worn,  dull, 
clogged,  turned  his  heavy  heart  up  to  the  sunlight 
of  youth,  and  seemed  slowly  stirred  into  life  by  con 
tact  and  collision  with  the  crisp,  sharp  newness  of 
feeling  in  the  breast  of  his  companion. 

"  The  fount  thus  opened  was  not  soon  exhausted. 
They  walked  down  the  mountain  together,  the  would- 
be  suicide  for  once  forgetful  of  his  sorrows  and  his 
sadness,  the  lad  with  such  new  sensations  awakened 
as  he  had  never  known  before. 

"  From  that  hour  these  two  met  daily — magnetic 
opposites  in  harmonious  unison.     Both  were  tutors  ; 
T* 


154  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

both  scholars.  The  grey-beard  opened  his  store  of 
learning,  poured  into  the  empty  vessel  at  his  side  the 
rich  accumulations  of  long  years  spent  in  the  academic 
groves,  and  received  in  return  those  boons  more  pre 
cious  even  than  learning — the  pure,  fresh,  vital  flow 
of  peace  and  health.  From  that  humble,  ignorant, 
half-clad  boy  he  drew  the  wisdom  of  life — a  wisdom 
which  drove  the  demon  of  Unrest  from  his  heart. 

"  It  is  unnecessary  to  follow  step  by  step  this  old 
man's  rescue  from  his  terrible  infatuation.  Affections 
and  sympathies  long  dormant  sprang  up  into  vigorous 
life  ;  he  turned  from  self,  that  dangerous  inward 
brooding  which  to  all  men  is  a  disease,  and  in  health 
ful  fellowship  and  love  discovered  the  antidote  to  those 
corroding,  self-inflicted  sorrows  which  so  long  had  been 
his  bane — the  clouds  that  obscured  but  did  not  ob 
literate  the  lights  of  humanity." 

"  I  think,  sir,"  said  Maggie,  after  my  little  tale 
was  told,  "  that  you  ought  to  write  a  novel." 

"  Why  ?".  inquired  I,  curiously. 

"  Because  grand  novels  are  better  than  anything." 

"  Better  than  plays  V 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Than  poems  ?" 

"  Better  than  anything.  I  don't  know  why.  When 
you  read  poetry,  I  am  delighted  ;  when  I  read  it  my- 


A  Bachelor's  Story. 


self,  I  am  only  half  pleased.  It  requires  so  much  art, 
and  I've  heard  you  say  so,  too,  to  read  poetry  well. 
But  a  novel  is  always  intense  enjoyment." 

"  Which  do  you  like  best,  the  old  or  the  new." 
"  I  don't  know  ;  I  like  them  when  they  are  good." 
"  A  wise  preference.  There  are  those  who  can 
make  a  keener  distinction,  however.  Novel-writing, 
like  other  matters,  has  changed,  and  perhaps  pro 
gressed.  When  steam  was  discovered,  not  locomo 
tion  only  was  pricked  into  new  activity,  but  the 
mystic  force  infused  itself  into  all  the  affairs  of 
men.  For  six  thousand  years  the  blood-human  had 
moved  sluggishly,  but  simultaneously  with  the  appli 
cation  of  this  ingenious  motor  to  the  propulsion  of 
keel  and  axle,  the  heart  of  civilization  began  to  boil 
and  bubble  —  steam  appeared  to  be  suddenly  gene 
rated  in  the  brains  of  men,  and  universal  rush  and 
haste  exhibited  itself  everywhere,  in  science,  art  and 
even  philosophy.  Novel-writing  did  not  escape. 
The  old-fashioned  stage-coach  novel  was  tripped  up, 
and  a  jaunty,  fast,  clever,  rattling  successor  seized 
the  reins  and  cracked  his  whip  in  our  ears. 

"  But  what  a  stately,  grand,  decorous  affair  the 
novel  was,  Maggie,  in  the  olden  tune.  How  method 
ical  in  form,  polished  in  diction,  elaborate  in  style  — 
moving  with  calm,  unruffled  progress  as  moved  our 
grandmothers  in  hoops,  furbelows,  and  powder  !  No- 


156  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

body  thought,  in  that  blessed  period,  of  becoming  in 
terested  in  a  novel  before  the  second  volume.  It  was 
an  understood  thing  that  a  certain  quantity  of  dull 
ness — a  purgatory  of  preliminaries — was  necessary 
before  the  reader  could  expect  to  experience  the  full 
interest  of  the  story.  But  all  this  is  not  the  modern 
way.  We  are  too  impatient  now  for  preliminaries, 
introductions,  and  preparatory  flourishes  once  so  in 
evitable.  We  demand  to  be  startled  at  the  begin 
ning.  We  must  bolt  at  the  pith  at  once.  Indeed, 
it  is  all  now  very  like  taking  a  cold  bath — we  turn 
over  the  title  page  and  jump  in  1" 

"  That's  true  enough,"  said  Maggie,  laughing  glee 
fully,  "  and  some  of  our  modern  writers  see  what  they 
can  do  to  surprise  us  in  the  first  sentence." 

"  I  do  not  like,  Maggie,  to  bolt  into  a  parlor  and 
astound  the  company.  It  is  more  agreeable  to 
familiarize  oneself  to  the  assembly  by  degrees,  and 
allow  the  spirits  to  rise  as  the  acquaintance  deepens. 
A  novel,  Mag,  should  be  like  Bridget's  broth." 

"  Why,  how,  sir  ?" 

"  You  clap  it  on  the  fire  cold,  and  let  it  warm  by 
gradual  degrees  until  the  boiling  point  is  reached — 
then  wisk  it  off — your  novel  is  cooked  ! 

"  But  I  am  not  disposed  to  accept  the  old  way 
altogether.  Melinda  over  her  embroidery  discussing 
with  such  transcendent  sweetness  all  the  cardinal 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  157 

virtues,  in  wonderful  syntax,  or  Lord  Montaine  mak 
ing  love  to  Clarissa  in  such  unendurable  good  gram 
mar,  and  receiving  the  lady's  blushing  Yes  in  the  style 
of  a  homily — were  things  which  delighted,  no  doubt, 
our  fine  old  grandmothers,  but  would  scarcely  prove 
acceptable  to  an  age  which  insists  that  art  shall  come 
down  from  her  stilts  and  shake  hands  with  nature  1  The 
novel  of  old  was  an  essay  on  virtue — rich,  stiff,  and 
showy,  like  old  brocade — a  matter  of  grand  toilettes, 
exasperating  propriety,  powder,  pumps,  and  rose- 
water.  But  the  novel  of  the  present  grasps 
the  utmost  range  of  philosophy  and  nature  ; 
it  delves  into  the  mysteries  of  life,  and  with  vast 
subtlety  dissects  human  motives  and  human  passions. 
It  is  the  scalpel,  laying  open  the  heart  of  the 
world!" 

"  Whose  novels  are  the  best  ?" 

"  I  canuot  say.  I  am  no  umpire  to  venture  upon 
absolute  dicta.  So  many  excellences  commingle  in 
the  pages  of  all,  so  many  spots  dull  the  brightness  of 
the  most  ambitious,  that  I  know  of  none  to  crown 
above  his  fellows.  For  Dickens  I  have  a  warm  cor 
ner  in  my  heart  ;  for  Thackeray  an  admiration  that 
grows  upon  what  it  feeds.  He  is  an  artist  who  glides 
into  your  sympathies,  you  scarcely  know  how,  and  by 
insinuation  the  most  subtle  and  powerful,  infuses  his 
magnetism  into  your  heart.  He  tints  his  pictures, 


158  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

rather  than  paints  them,  but  the  colors  are  fast ; 
Dickens,  on  the  contrary,  lays  on  broad  masses  of 
color — keeps  up  his  effects  in  startling  lights  and 
shades.  His  humor  is  as  broad  and  round  as  a  Dutch 
man  ;  his  tragedy  out-Rembrandts  Rembrandt — 
opaque,  dark,  fearful  ! 

"  But  the  man  for  whom  I  have  ever  an  eager 
sympathy  is  Hawthorne.  To  him  my  whole  nature 
turns  up,  like  a  peach  to  the  sun.  I  ripen  under  the 
warm,  rich  fullness  of  his  genius;  the  tint  and  tone 
of  his  mind  flood  through  and  through  the  chambers 
of  my  soul,  and  light  them  up  with  mellow  eloquence 
of  feeling.  Under  Hawthorne,  I  am  more  than  my 
self — dead  faculties  spring  up  ;  the  imagination  wells 
to  the  brim  and  overflows;  the  life  that  is  in  me  is 
new-touched!" 

"  I  have  read  the  Scarlet  Letter,"  broke  in  Maggie, 
"  and  I  think  that  I  too  had  some  such  feelings." 

"Possibly,  Maggie;  but  I've  observed  lately  that 
you  have  fallen  into  the  way  of  young  ladies,  and 
have  crammed  yourself  to  repletion  with  various 
watery  novels,  classified,  I  believe,  under  the  general 
name  of  '  domestic.' " 

"  Everything  that  I  have  read  has  been  good!' 
exclaimed  Maggie,  with  some  spirit. 

"  I  bend  my  neck,  and  believe  humbly,"  replied  I, 
in  a  tone  which  flushed  Maggie's  cheek.  "  But  still, 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  159 

Maggie,  these  novels  which  you  have  been  reading, 
although  they  are  applauded  in  parlors,  commended 
by  mild  parsons,  and  receive  the  sanction  of  circum 
spect  dames,  have  not,  ordinarily,  vitality  enough  to 
agitate  a  snail.  A  heart  as  deep  as  the  ribbed  edge 
of  a  dime,  would  be  beyond  their  fathom;  they  are 
swallow  novels,  that  skim  along  the  surface  of  society, 
and  tip  their  beaks  through  the  thin  surface  to  catch 
little  fishes  ;  polite  and  proper  novels  ;  novels  of 
skimmed  commonplaces,  with  ill-cooked  dinners  for 
catastrophes,  pricked  fingers  and  soiled  silks  for  inci 
dents;  tapery,  babies,  small  theology,  and  all  the 
milder-mannered  passions  for  machinery — novels,  with 
out  one  genuine,  free,  hearty  pulse-beat  from  initial 
to  finis  !  They  are  mostly  written  by  women  " 

"  Oh,  but,"  cried  Maggie,  with  warmth,  "  women 
have  written  splendid  novels — Currer  Bell,  for  in 
stance." 

"  Of  course,  I  shall  not  permit  you  to  break  your 
lance  so  zealously,  Maggie;  I  forestall  you  by  confess 
ing  to  the  fact.  Noble  novels  have  been  fathered  by 
women  " 

"  Why,  that's  a  bull,  sir." 

"  Let  it  pass.  But  the  most  astonishing  of  all 
novels  are  the  theological  ones.  Women  never  have 
any  difficulties  :  the  dear,  little,  clear-headed  angels 
see  through  the  mysteries,  philosophies,  metaphysical 


160  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

subtleties,  ethical  problems,  that  puzzle  and  perplex 
the  astutest  of  learned  and  wise  men,  with  a  facility 
wonderful  and  admirable.  They  disentangle  an  awk 
ward  question  in  theology  as  easy  as  a  snarled  skein; 
or  if  the  knot  prove  a  little  tough,  they  whip  out 
their  scissors,  and  clip  the  Gordian  puzzle. 

"  Indeed,  I  must  confess  that  the  thing  least  to  be 
endured  with  patience  in  a  novel  is  a  heroine  scarcely 
out  of  pinafores,  given  to  white  muslin  and  the  ab 
strusities,  running  about  and  disposing  of  grave  and 
vexed  questions  with  a  flippant  assurance  deserving 
of  nothing  so  much  as  boxed  ears,  and  venturing, 
with  the  audacity  of  ignorance,  into  those  seas  where 
brave  and  wise  men  can  find  no  soundings.  Bread 
and  butter  theology  is  very  fashionable,  I  know  ;  but 
I  prefer  young  women  who  can  leave  these  things  to 
then*  betters." 

"  But  do  not  the  novels  you  speak  of  teach  a  good 
moral  ?" 

"  Their  very  fault.  Knowingly,  I  will  not  read  a 
novel  with  a  moral." 

"  Well,  I  declare  1  You  talk  so  strange,  sir.  I 
would  suppose  a  good  moral  novel  the  very 
thing." 

"  Has  Niagara  any  moral  ?  let  me  ask  ;  or  Mont 
Blanc?  or  the  Mammoth  Cave?  or  the  Highlands 
of  the  Hudson  ?  or  my  loved  Shady  Side  ?  Such 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  161 

morality  as  lives  in  the  beautiful,  the  sentiment  of 
the  sublime,  and  its  divine  expansion  of  heart  and 
soul !  No  more.  Novels  are  pictures  of  life,  and 
have  artistically  no  more  to  do  with  ethics  than  the 
canvases  upon  my  walls.  We  want  color,  vitality, 
movement,  drama  in  our  novels  ;  we  read  them  that 
we  may  put  ourselves  into  shapes  other  than  our 
own  ;  the  heroism,  valor,  sentiment,  life,  are  all  ours, 
reflected  in  the  page  before  us.  We  do  not  ask  nor 
seek  for  homilies  ;  we  ask  merely  for  a  photograph 
of  life,  in  its  exact  tint  and  form.  The  novel,  in 
short,  should  always  be  dramatic,  never  didactic. 
If  it  preach,  it  is  an  abomination.  We  might  just 
as  well  look  for  a  wise  maxim  pinned  to  Niagara,  as 
for  a  moral  clapped  to  the  pages  of  a  novel." 

"  My  father  says  that  amusement  should  always 
be  combined  with  instruction  ;  and  novels  therefore 
should  do  something  more  than  entertain." 

"  Yes,  for  first  and  second  childhood,  possibly. 
But  I  deny  the  premises.  I  decline  being  in 
structed  ;  I  refuse  permission  for  any  gentleman, 
under  cover,  to  trick  me  into  the  knowledge  of  any 
thing.  I  will,  of  my  own  free  will,  elect  what  I 
shall  learn,  but  no  homilies,  sugared  over  with  delu 
sive  names — no  vagabondizing  lecturers,  prosaic  and 
soporific — no  ponderous  gentlemen,  who  flourish  in 
amiable  paragraphs  in  the  corners  of  the  newspapers 


162  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

— none  of  these  shall  make  a  victim  of  me.  I  was 
not  born  to  be  filled  up  with  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry's 
refuse  ;  to  be  crammed  with  every  would-be-moralist's 
wise  saws  ;  to  be  stuffed  with  sage  maxims  at  the 
option  of  every  shallow-brained  philanthropist  who 
crosses  my  way.  I  ask  of  poets,  novelists,  essayists, 
wit  and  sentiment.  They  may  make  me  laugh,  or 
by  skillfully  touching  the  fount  of  tears,  make  me 
weep.  My  imagination  unfolds,  and  will  warm  under 
the  touch  of  every  man  who  can  bring  to  it  susten 
ance  and  light ;  but  no  one  shall  slip  facts  into  the 
machinery  without  my  consent ;  no  man  shall  choke 
me  with  proverbs  '  and  such  small  deer '  while  I  have 
power  to  resist." 

"Why,  sir,  you  are  the  most  incomprehensible 
man  I  ever  met.  Now  tell  me,  sir,  if  you  had 
a  daughter,  what  would  you  begin  by  teaching 
her  ?» 

"  Trigonometry  I" 

"  My  goodness  1"  exclaimed  Maggie,  and  laughed 
merrily. 

"  All  mathematics,"  said  I,  resuming  ;  "  for  I  tell 
you,  Mag,  that  no  one  can  think  around  a  corner 
who  has  not  thumbed  Euclid  in  his  youth.  I  would 
make  my  girl  skilled  in  the  subtleties  of  problem  and 
theorem  as  thoroughly  as  if  my  offspring  were  a 
boy ;  and  from  mathematics  I  would  lead  her  into 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  163 

the  highest  atmosphere  of  literature.  The  grandest 
authors  should  give  expansion  to  her  mind  ;  her 
imagination  should  put  forth  wide  reaches  under  the 
mightiest  poets  and  philosophers.  The  Titans  of 
literature  should  be  her  teachers ;  none  of  this 
frothed  cream — this  whipped  syllabub  for  her,  O 
Maggie  Dean  1" 


X. 

How  Maggie  has  flourished  in  my  fireside  corner — 
Love  the  mighty  and  Lovers  the  monarchs — A  love 
thought  fancifully  pursued — Life,  the  world,  and  the 
imperfect  sensibilities — My  hearthstone  and  a  dream  of 
the  impossible. 


166 


X. 

AS  Maggie  sits  where  the  fire-light  glances  up 
clear  and  full  into  her  face,  I  am  studying 
her  features  from  my  seat  opposite,  peering  at  them 
over  the  top  of  a  journal  in  my  hand.  Maggie 
is  reading,  and  the  candle-light  falls  over  her 
shoulder  upon  the  page  in  her  lap. 

Vastly  unproved  is  Maggie  now  from  that  elf 
creature  I  met  in  the  green  lane.  She  is  beautiful, 
I  think,  but  by  no  known  law  of  beauty  ;  dark,  but 
clear ;  irregular  in  feature,  but  with  an  expression 
of  refinement,  power,  and  intelligence  not  discern 
ible  when  I  first  knew  her.  Her  eyes  flash  bright 
and  strangely  as  ever  ;  but  the  wild  glance  has 
vanished,  and  the  weird-like  movement  of  her  limbs 
and  body  has  been  subdued  into  something  refined, 
although  still  nervous  and  emphatic.  She  is  taller 
and  more  rounded  in  outline  ;  and  with  the  stature 
of  her  body  the  stature  of  her  mind  has  more  than 
kept  pace.  The  whole  tone  and  character  of  her 
intelligence  has  broadened  and  deepened.  She  is 

167 


168  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

far  from  being  crammed  with  facts.  In  many  di 
rections  she  is  sadly  ignorant.  But  her  acquire 
ments  have  been  dissolved  into  a  state  of  fusibility 
— her  whole  nature  is  saturated  with  aesthetic  feel 
ing  ;  and  this  I  attribute  to  the  course  I  have 
pursued  with  her.  I  turned  her  loose  into  my 
library,  after  the  advice  of  the  gruff  old  author  of 
"  Kasselas  ;"  and  I  urged  her  to  read,  no  matter 
what,  so  long  as  she  put  her  mind  in  contact  with 
other  minds.  I  felt  assured  that  the  native  purity 
and  discernment  of  her  character  would  sift  the 
gross  from  the  true.  In  her  own  affinities  and 
repulsions  I  depended  for  the  elements  which  would 
absorb  the  excellent  and  the  congenial,  and  at  the 
same  time  repel  the  false  and  vicious. 

There  is  chemistry  in  the  brain.  If  its  spirit  be 
true,  to  it  will  fly  the  beautiful,  the  honest,  the  fair  ; 
it  will  assimilate  from  everything  within  its  circle 
the  particles  and  parts  apposite  and  consonant  to 
its  nature.  Like  a  plant,  it  will  draw  sustenance 
from  the  atmosphere,  and  by  processes  of  its  own, 
extract  even  from  the  rottenness  around  it,  rich  contri 
butions  from  which  golden  fruit  afterwards  matures. 

And  so  Maggie  flourished  and  ripened  with  a 
swiftness  which  could  not  have  been  equalled  with 
a  soil  less  natively  rich.  At  first  facts  confounded 
her ;  the  multitude  of  sensations  opened  to  her 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  169 

imagination  oppressed  her  with  their  regal  boun- 
tifulness.  But  order  soon  came  out  of  chaos  ;  deep, 
profound  feeling  matured  under  the  crowd  and 
wealth  of  the  impressions  which  poured  into  her 
soul  from  every  point  ;  from  the  poets  for  the  first 
time  unveiled  ;  from  the  grand  historical  drama, 
enacted  down  through  the  centuries  by  all  the 
nations  of  the  past  ;  from  the  wealth  of  human 
character,  fancy,  wit,  range  of  passion,  unfolded  in 
the  pages  of  the  romancists  ;  from  facts  in  science, 
bewildering  in  their  marvellous  beauty  and  measure 
less  wonder  ! 

Thinking  these  things,  I  watched  Maggie  by  the 
fire,  until  my  fancy,  unusually  active,  conjured  up  a 
possibility  which  made  me  laugh. 

But  the  laugh  was  affected,  and  died  away  into  a 
sigh.  Maggie  looked  up  wonderingly  from  her 
book,  with  a  smile  upon  her  lips  somewhat  plaintive 
and  tender  I  thought. 

"  Come  here,  Maggie,"  said  I,  "  and  sit  by  me." 

"  Yes,  sir."  She  came  quickly,  pushing  along  the  low 
seat  with  her  foot,  and  took  the  place  I  pointed  out. 

"  What  are  you  reading  ?" 

"  A  love  story." 

"  Ah  !  your  fancy  leaps  quick  to  the  sentiment,  I 
dare  say.     The  art  of  the  story  may  be  low,  but  it 
warms  the  blood  around  your  heart." 
8 


170  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

Maggie  looked  down  and  blushed  a  little. 

"  LOTC,  after  all,  Maggie,"  said  I,  with  the  fore 
finger  lifting  and  playing  with  the  stray  curl  that 
fell  down  upon  the  shoulder,  "  love  is  the  grand  pas 
sion — the  end-all  and  be-all.  There  is  nothing  else 
for  which  men  endure  so  much, — nothing  else  which 
so  masters  the  nature,  and  yet  so  spurs  the  faculties. 
Hope  never  soars  so  highly,  Joy  never  leaps  so  ex- 
ultingly,  Pea^e  never  settles  upon  the  heart  so 
sweetly,  Ambition  never  rises  so  mightily,  as  when 
the  little  cherub  Love  sits  in  the  chamber  of  the 
fancy.  The  lover  is  a  monarch  ;  his  heart  is  the 
world;  he  stalks  a  Colossus,  with  the  little  affairs  of 
the  universe,  the  wars  and  policies,  playing  at  bo-peep 
about  his  legs.  With  a  sigh  in  his  ear,  just  fresh  and 
palpitating  from  the  bosom  of  love,  and  its  fellow 
half-strangled  in  the  throat  as  it  leaps  to  respond, 
your  lover  has  neither  sense  nor  comprehension  for 
the  dull  actualities  that  other  men  bruise  their  pa 
tience  against.  To  him  past  and  present,  loss  and 
profit,  good  and  ill,  are  all  merged  into  one  sensation ; 
a  kiss  blots  out  the  universe,  and  the  rapturous  ec 
stasy  that  tingles  hi  his  blood  is  light,  day,  life, 
respiration — the  sum  of  everything  which  makes  up 
existence.  Somebody  describes  love  as  Self  merged 
into  an  idea  dearer  than  self — a  perfect  solution,  to 
my  mind,  of  a  world-old  problem." 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  171 

But  while  I  speak,  Maggie  does  not  follow  me 
as  usual  with  her  eyes.  Her  senses  do  not  have 
that  eager  and  absorbing  aspect  with  which  my  lu 
cubrations  are  always  greeted.  Her  eyes  are  veiled: 
she  does  not  respond. 

"  There  are  few  things,  Maggie,"  I  resume,  watch 
ing  her  closely,  "  so  well  worth  experiencing.  I  would 
rather  be  a  lover,  than  an  actor  hi  any  other  field, 
however  grand.  There  are  no  triumphs  so  sweet  as 
those  of  love  ;  no  pleasures  so  deep,  no  experience 
so  fruitful  of  profound,  world-wide  happiness.  Fame, 
power,  wealth — the  altitude  which  commands  worship, 
and  the  incense  which  ascends  to  the  great — nothing 
so  transfuses  the  weight  of  mortality  into  gossamer, 
nothing  so  essentially  lifts  us  into  an  atmosphere 
above  vulgar  care  and  earth-born  perplexity." 

"  In  the  love  story  I  have  been  reading,"  said 
Maggie,  without  lifting  her  eyes  from  the  floor,  "  is 
abundance  of  both  care  and  perplexity.  It  is  a  tale 
of  amusing  cross-purposes,  in  which  every  possible  ad 
versity  arises  to  thwart  the  desires  of  the  hero  and 
heroine.  I  should  say,  sir,  that  it  very  effectually 
disproves  your  theory." 

"  But  you  would  leap  into  the  shoes  of  the  heroine 
with  one  bound,  if  the  power  to  do  so  could  be  vouch 
safed  to  you.  And  I  no  less  would  slip  off  my  age, 
my  philosophy,  my  love  of  idle  reverie,  and  jump  into 


172  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

the  individuality  of  the  hero.  I  would  accept  the 
lover's  tribulations  even  at  the  sacrifice  of  my  ease, 
if  by  that  transformation  I  could  enjoy,  even  briefly, 
that  broad,  bristling  experience  of  life  which  is  his. 
Think  of  it,  Maggie.  I  metamorphosed  into  youth 
and  love,  and  you  the  Dulcinea  for  whom  the  mystic 
transition  is  effected!" 

"  Strange  enough.  But  I,  unlike  you,  would  not 
desire  the  change." 

"  Why?  Is  youth  so  far  receded  that  I  must  not 
turn  a  wistful  glance  backward  ?  Or  is  it  impossible 
for  your  imagination  to  conceive  a  poor  word-broker 
like  me,  in  the  splendid  flush  of  gallant  youth  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  sir  !"  cried  Maggie,  impulsively;  "  I 
do  not  mean  either  of  those  things.  I  know  you  as 
you  are — is  it  not  natural  that  I  should  prefer  the 
real  to  any  imaginative  picture  that  can  be  por 
trayed  r 

"  Most  decidedly  not.  You  are  young,  and  you 
are  a  woman.  By  those  two  facts  I  peep  into  the 
arcana  of  your  brain — I  see  the  dreams  that  hide 
themselves  there,  and  the  grand  images  you  delight  to 
bring  forth,  and  fancy  real.  You  have  heroes  in  your 
heart,  Mag,  and  I  cannot  believe  that  your  active 
fancy  can  content  itself  with  a  man  like  me,  with 
temples  crow-marked,  a  ridged  brow,  and  lips  withered 
between  a  parenthesis  of  lines,  set  years  ago  by  old 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  173 

Time,  as  a  signal  that  their  best  uses  were  past!  No. 
While  I  speak  there  leaps  into  the  light  before  you  a 
youth  of  magnificent  bloom  ;  white-browed,  tender- 
lipped,  high-breasted,  sun-eyed  1  Such  a  youth  as 
mnidenhood  delights  to  paint,  and  your  imagination 
starts  eager  and  warm  to  the  picture,  but — 
but"— 

"  But  what,  sir  ?" 

"  It  glides  into  the  peaked  visage  of  Ike." 

"  Dear  me  1  I  do  not  like  Ike.  I've  told  you  so 
before." 

"  But  have  you  noted  how  splendid  he  has  grown  ? 
He  is  trimmed  up  and  put  in  holiday  attire.  His 
locks  are  clipped  into  comely  proportion;  his  coat  is 
brushed  ;  he  hath  an  itching  to  be  polite.  Be  sure 
of  it,  Mag,  he  is  smoothing  and  trimming  his  plum 
age,  preparatory  to  a  flight  straight  into  your 
heart." 

"  And  I,"  exclaimed  Maggie,  with  spirit,  "  will 
shut  the  casement  and  exclude  him.  He  can  find  no 
resting-place  in  my  good  thoughts." 

"  Why,  you  encourage  him.  You  let  him  walk  by 
your  side  ;  you  talk  to  him,  and  send  him  errands  ; 
you  afford  him  the  exquisite  pleasure  of  doing  you 
service — rank  encouragement,  under  which  his  heart 
waxeth  resolute,  and  his  passion  roars  into  an  unex- 
tinguishable  flame." 


174  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

"  Really,  sir,  you  make  me  laugh.  Ike  is  a  comical, 
good-natured  fellow,  who  amuses  me.  He  likes  to  be 
in  my  company — to  please  him  I  permit  it." 

"  Ah,  Mag,  every  woman  spins  her  webs  and  builds 
her  meshes  hi  the  sun.  Her  game  is  hearts.  She 
lays  in  wait  and  snaps  them  up,  big  and  little,  wise 
and  foolish — the  taste  of  all  alike  is  sweet.  She 
feeds  upon  them,  lives  by  the  nourishment  they  afford; 
and  plans,  strives,  struggles,  hopes  to  the  one  end  of 
conquering  them." 

"  Monstrous!" 

"  You  plead  not  guilty?" 

"  A  thousand  times.  Women  love  deeply,  and  are 
content;  but  you  men  dissect  your  tenderest  impulses; 
you  philosophize  upon  your  most  precious  affections 
in  such  cold  blood,  that  I  am  chilled  to  think  of  it. 
How  can  you,  sir  ?" 

"  Not  in  cold  blood,  Mag.  My  philosophy,  too 
often,  is  the  bubble  upon  the  boiling  liquid  ;  my 
fancy  sorntimes  plays  its  fantastic  antics  upon  the 
very  surface  of  down-reaching  sorrows.  My  phi 
losophy,  like  other  men's  philosophy,  is  all  veneering. 
It  rarely  strikes  deep,  but  glitters  with  its  polished 
surface  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and  may  pass  with 
some  for  substantial  stuff." 

"  If  you  are  in  earnest  now,  sir,  which  I  half 
doubt,  do  tell  me  what  you  are." 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  175 

"  An  old  man  peeping  from  his  loop-hole  out  upon, 
the  world  and  nature ;  a  curious  speculator  in 
bubbles  ;  a  pricker  and  stealer  into  other  people's 
thoughts.  These  things  my  occupation — the  flow 
and  set  of  my  current  of  life.  Beneath,  more  and 
less — a  mine  in  which  the  lights  of  observation 
will  not  burn  1  I  cannot,  even  dare  not,  explore 
into  all  the  mysteries  of  passion,  Bin,  desire,  love  of 
self,  which  hide  themselves  in  the  deep  places  of  the 
soul ;  but  I  am  conscious  ever  that  I  am  an  actor  in 
my  own  sight ;  that  beneath  these  ordinary  motives, 
this  common  daily  life,  lie  possibilities  of  passion, 
feeling,  and  thought,  capable  of  some  huge  and 
grand  expression.  I  live  in  expectation  ;  the  soul 
is  poised  in  suspense,  and  appears  ever  to  wait  the 
striking  of  some  signal  by  which  it  suddenly  shall 
expand  into  a  life  the  vast  multiple  of  this.  There 
is  the  feeling  of  insufficiency  everywhere  ;  my  facul 
ties  perpetually  fall  short  of  the  power  at  which 
they  aim.  There  is  some  clog  of  earth  or  mor 
tality  upon  my  senses  by  which  the  zest  of  happi 
ness  and  pleasure  is  dulled.  In  fact,  we  are  all 
half-ripened  fruit — with  one-sided  sensibilities  and 
faculties." 

"  But  I  thought  you  could  think  on  every  side  of 
a  subject,"  said  Maggie,  half  smiling,  and  with  an 
evident  reminiscence  in  her  mind  of  something  I 


176  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

had  said  at  another  time.  I  did  not  choose  to  heed 
her  retort,  and  pursued  my  subject. 

"  Our  susceptibilities  fall  vastly  short  of  all  the 
forms  and  expressions  of  beauty,  multiplied  on  our 
every  side.  There  is  not  one  of  us  that  isn't  a 
groper — stone  blind  or  senselessly  dumb  in  some  one 
(if  not  more)  of  the  human  sensibilities.  There  are 
those  who  are  color  blind,  others  who  are  musically 
deaf.  To  some,  outline  is  only  mathematical,  and 
grace  a  sealed  book.  Material  expression  in  all  its 
many  phases — through  form,  color,  grace,  or  what 
ever  makes  up  the  total  which  we  foot  under  the 
name  of  Beauty,  very  rarely  finds  a  catholic  ap 
preciation  centered  hi  one  individual.  We  are 
gnarled,  half-sunned  growths,  with  imprisoned  desires 
struggling  for  some  more  perfect  development — 
eager  to  burst  into  a  fuller  enjoyment,  but  this 
'muddy  vesture  of  decay  doth  grossly  close  them 
in.' 

"  Perhaps,  indeed,  a  perfect  man  would  prove  an 
organization  too  exquisite  for  this  world.  Pleasure 
would  press  upon  him  through  a  thousand  avenues 
with  a  keen,  sharp,  ecstatic  relish,  too  rapturous  for 
endurance.  But  the  tune  may  come  when  these 
forces  within  us,  shall  attain  that  destiny  which  now 
in  mysterious  mutterings  they  vaguely  indicate. 
Our  present  is  only  the  loam  in  which  germinates 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  177 

the  seed  of  some  great  growth,  which  shall  expand 
into  fullness  in  a  hereafter." 

"  What  you  say,  after  all,  is  nothing  more  than 
that  which  we  find  in  the  promises  of  religion." 

"  An  old  truth  may  be  expressed  in  new  ways. 
The  most  obvious  things  become  dulled  to  the  appre 
hension  by  their  familiar  front.  If  our  gorgeous  sun 
sets  were  hung  in  the  heavens  but  once  a  year,  their 
annual  recurrence  would  have  nations  for  spectators. 
The  millions  of  the  earth  would  assemble  upon  the 
high  places  in  rapt  and  breathless  admiration.  In 
their  daily  coming  they  are  not  less  beautiful,  but 
we  have  sated  appetites,  and  it  is  necessary  to  pause 
sometimes,  and  remind  ourselves  of  their  true  mag 
nificence  ;  we  must  seek  for  new  phases,  fresh  ex 
pletives,  suggestive  similes,  by  which  our  jaded  senses 
can  be  stirred  into  a  realization  of  their  loveli 
ness." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Maggie,  musingly  ;  "  but  will 
you  tell  me  in  what  yon  believe  ?" 

"  In  God,  and  in  man  the  workmanship,  exposition 
and  created  of  Divinity.  Misanthropy  must  be  the 
unpardonable  sin,  for  who  doubts  MAN,  doubts  with 
high  audacity  the  wisdom  and  power  of  the  Maker. 
I  know  what  the  history  of  man  has  been,  how 
fierce,  frenzied,  sinful,  but  still  with  undying  tenacity 
will  I  cling  to  the  faith  that  beneath  ah1  has  ever 
8* 


178  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

flowed  a  pure,  earnest  current ;  that  evil  thrusts 
itself  up  in  jagged  outlines  upon  the  surface,  while 
at  heart  truth  and  goodness  warm  in  fruitful  com 
merce  ;  that  the  judgment,  so  often  deluded,  has 
given  its  election  to  sin,  while  still  the  heart  was 
honest ;  that  will  has  been  stirred  into  headstrong 
iniquity,  and  still  the  heart  was  honest ;  that  sense 
has  yielded  to  hot  temptation  and  wrapped  itself  in 
dehrious  pleasure,  and  still  the  heart  was  honest ! 
These  few  who  are  altogether  bad,  these  great  rogues 
are  simply  diseased.  Their  condition  is  not  normal  ; 
good  and  evil,  as  in  the  healthy  condition  of  men, 
are  not  poised.  There  are  twists  and  knots  in  their 
moral  growth  ;  they  are  an  imperfect  species,  such 
as  tri-headed  monsters,  deformities  with  duplicate 
legs,  and  the  like.  In  the  immaculate  bosoms  of  the 
angels  there  is  infinite  pity  for  these  and  for  all 
sinners." 

There  is  a  storm  to-night,  and  Maggie  has  left  me 
early.  I  sit  alone  over  the  grate,  thrusting  my 
poker  down  into  the  red  anthracite,  and  shrinking 
from  the  silence  which  the  elements  that  are  clatter 
ing  against  the  shutters,  do  not  hush.  There  are 
sounds  which  intensify  silence  ;  and  there  is  a  rest 
less  throb  in  the  stillness  of  some  hours  which  pricks 
and  stirs  like  the  alarms  of  conscience.  When  the 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  179 

monotonous  beat  of  utter  silence  is  in  the  ear,  there 
is  an  acute  tension  to  the  brain,  and  impression  em 
bosses  itself  more  swiftly  and  surely  than  when  the 
mind  shrinks  and  half  shuts  its  petals  in  the  glare 
and  stir  of  day. 

The  best  pictures  are  not  photographed  upon  the 
imagination  by  the  sun  ;  dead  midnight  is  a  Rem 
brandt  which  paints  its  cartoons  upon  the  walls  of 
the  brain  in  those  vivid  contrasts  that  live  forever. 

The  sun,  indeed,  is  a  Gradgrind,  clamorous  for 
facts  ;  it  exacts  the  practical  and  the  real,  and 
thrusts  the  mind  into  work-day  clothes.  But  mid 
night  gives  wings  and  space  to  fancy  ;  in  its  dim 
aisles  the  grotesque,  the  wild,  the  fantastic  pour  out 
from  cells,  where  they  hide  themselves  from  light, 
and  enact  their  sportive  antics.  All  bald,  sharp-cut 
facts,  commerce,  thrift,  mechanism,  material  greats 
ness  are  born  of  the  day  ;  but  poem,  art,  beauty, 
love,  eloquence,  imagination,  ambition,  revolution, 
tragedy,  dark  aspiration,  and  all  fitful  dreams  and 
the  meteoric  splendors  of  mind  are  born  of  starlight. 

And  so  I,  to-night,  am  pursuing  a  dream  which  in 
the  day-light  would  hide  itself. 

It  is  of  Maggie.     She  is  sixteen  and  I  am 

What  now,  if  I  am  not  the  old  man  I  have 
painted  myself?  Shall  I  tell  you  that  I  have  ca 
priciously  deepened  my  wrinkles,  multiplied  the  grey 


180  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

hairs,  and  by  virtue  of  a  native  melancholy  drawn  a 
sadder  portrait  than  the  truth  will  justify?  Per 
haps  I  am  younger  by  a  dozen  years  than  you  give 
me  credit  for  ;  and  my  talk  of  the  sere  and  yellow 
leaf  only  such  affectation  that  comes  upon  us  when 
youth  has  indeed  slipped  by,  and  the  mournful  con 
sciousness  thereof  magnifies  to  our  quick  apprehen 
sions  the  approaches  of  age  ! 

The  first  crisp  day  of  autumn  precipitates  us  into 
the  belief  that  winter  is  come.  But  the  long,  mel 
low  Indian  summer  surprises  us  with  its  soft  and 
tender  beauty,  and  the  frosts  prove  more  remote  than 
we  supposed ! 

But  Maggie's  relation  to  me  is  not  truly  indexed 
by  the  difference  in  our  years.  I  am  younger  to 
Maggie  than  I  am  to  the  world,  and  she  older  to  me, 
in  the  tone  and  color  of  her  mind,  than  her  years 
proclaim.  We  have  assimilated.  Impressions  have 
flowed  from  me  to  her  ;  the  growth  and  blossom  of 
her  intellect  have  drawn  properties  from  mine ; 
thought  and  sensibility  have  taken  tint  and  shape 
from  me.  Companionship  like  ours  must  need 
ripen  into  something,  and  if  Maggie,  with  her  won 
derful  capacity  for  feeling,  matures  swiftly  into  sum 
mer  verdure,  and  clambers  up  to  identity  of  sym 
pathy  and  tastes  with  me,  may  not  I  trip  back  into 
fhe  briskness  of  younger  sensation  ? 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  181 

But  Beatrice  !  I  almost  seem  to  hear  the  name 
whispered  audibly  in  the  stillness  of  the  room,  and 
the  tender  recollection  brings  down  a  mist  between 
me  and  the  grate. 

I  have  h'ked  girlhood  ever  with  strange  depths  of 
tenderness.  Love,  painted  by  the  poets  as  a  boy, 
always  lives  hi  my  imagination  in  the  girlish  graces  of 
Psyche  ;  and  this  sentiment,  more  profound  than  I 
have  power  to  illustrate,  led  me  once  into  that  un 
wise  passion  for  Beatrice  ;  on  this  whiter  night  is 
leading  me  into  dreams  from  which  the  sentinel, 
Judgment,  is  sounding  his  distinct  warning. 

How  is  it  ?     Can  one  be  a  lover  many  tunes  ? 

Many  tunes,  perhaps,  but  with  one  love  !  I  utter 
no  paradox  when  I  say,  that  the  passion  which  blos 
somed  in  the  glades  of  Shady  Side,  and  that  warm 
feeling  which  gathers  sometimes  around  my  heart 
when  my  girlish  listener  is  by,  are  identical  in  senti 
ment  ;  a  perception  of  the  grace,  tender  freshness 
and  beauty  of  girlhood  peculiar  to  men  like  me  ; 
perhaps  a  weakness,  though  still  a  sentiment  which 
proves  my  advancing  tide  of  years  ;  for  old  men  are 
wont  to  fall  in  love  with  young  girls.  I  will  search 
my  philosophy  for  reasons  why. 

I  veil  my  dream  to  myself  and  others.  I  speak 
Maggie,  but  think  Beatrice.  It  was  fit  that  an 
anchorite  should  have  his  dream,  which,  to  the  last 


182  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

fading  away  of  all  things  earthly,  should  sit  like  a 
companion  at  his  hearth,  lie  upon  his  pillow,  mingle 
in  his  reverie,  guide  the  helm  of  his  meditation,  and 
live  in  all  beauty,  all  tender  sounds,  all  awakening 
harmonies  of  earth  and  air.  A  dream  which  the 
heart  has  striven  to  adjust  to  some  reality — which, 
at  this  hour,  in  these  mellow  tints  of  the  anthracite, 
would  fain  fit  to  the  youth  and  heart  of  Maggie  as 
once,  in  a  wilder  way,  it  strove  to  find  realization 
under  the  green  leaves  of  Shady  Side. 

Let  me  dream  on,  then  ;  and  if  to-night  my  fancy 
leads  me  into  impossible  conjunctions,  the  daylight 
will  restore  the  cold  proprieties  ;  love,  passion,  senti 
ment — possibilities  of  sympathy  and  happiness,  will 
lie  cold  amid  the  morning  ashes  of  the  grate. 


XI. 

A  portrait  of  John  Jellaway,  Builder,  pen-ographed — 
An  anchorite's  dreams  discordant  amid  the  affairs  of 
life — I  declare  my  faith  in  Bishop  Berkeley  and  the 
sovereignty  of  sensation — Maggie  is  eloquent  and  strong- 
minded — I  act  the  guide-post,  and  point  to  Maggie  a 
road  that  she  may  travel — Art  her  new  aspiration. 


188 


XI. 

i(  "1%  /I"  AGGIE,  I've  heard  a  rumor  that  alarms 

iVJL  me." 

"  What  is  it,  sir  ?" 

"  John  Jellaway,  Builder,  proprietor  of  Shady  Side, 
has  cut  it  up  into  imaginary  lots,  and  hung  a  map 
thereof  in  the  village  post-office." 

"  What  can  he  possibly  intend  to  do  ?" 

"John  Jellaway  is  a  magnificent  schemer,  and 
having  succeeded  hi  erecting  a  railroad,  by  means  of 
stock  from  deluded  subscribers,  which  runs  from  no 
thing  to  nowhere,  expects  a  rush  from  all  quarters  of 
civilization  to  settle,  occupy,  sojourn,  build  upon,  and 
populate  his  unfruitful  fields." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  John  Jellaway  ?" 

"  Never.  But  I  will  draw  his  portrait,  and  you 
shall  say  it  is  correct." 

"  But  I  never  laid  eyes  upon  him  in  my  life." 

"  Nevertheless  you  have  instincts.  I  will  draw 
his  portrait  upon  the  air,  and  you  shall,  by  impalpa 
ble  conviction,  applaud  the  sketch.  He  is  a  broad, 


i86  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

short  fellow,  massive  about  the  mouth,  chin,  and  the 
back  of  his  head.  Little,  grey  eyes,  broad  nostrils, 
huge  perceptive  faculties,  with  receding  brow." 

"  Oh,  I  see  him  exactly." 

"Thick  limbed,  coarse  bearded,  huge  lunged, 
slovenly  in  dress,  and  a  little  proud  thereof ;  a  bad 
hat,  and  thick,  unpolished  boots  ;  a  tobacco  chewer, 
and  saliva  copiously  ejected  upon  everybody  and 
everything  !  This  is  John  Jellaway,  Builder. 

"  I  shall  certainly  try  and  see  the  man,"  said  Mag 
gie,  "  and  so  judge  of  the  fidelity  of  your  sketch. 
But  it  is  such  a  fellow  as  I  would  imagine." 

"  I  am  as  sure  of  the  likeness  as  if  I  were  the  sun 
itself  (that  splendid  portrait-taker  !)  and  he  had  sat 
to  me  for  his  picture.  The  fact  is,  John  Jellaway 
has  amassed  a  huge  fortune,  and  by  means  which  to 
speak  of  will  always  put  the  heads  of  the  sagacious 
in  a  mysterious  vibration.  He  is,  I  am  told,  a  great 
speculator,  a  financial  schemer  ;  his  gods  are  stocks, 
bonds  and  scrips  ;  he  is  a  smart,  nimble,  go-ahead 
(to  where  ?)  enterprising  citizen,  a  class  so  common 
in  our  country,  and  the  eulogies  to  whom,  so  clamor 
ously  thrust  upon  the  public  ear,  are  to  me  melan 
choly  tollings,  ringing  out  the  death  in  the  public 
mind  of  some  virtue — some  love  of  honesty  and  the 
right.  For  this  common  weakness  of  our  country 
men — this  love  of  success  and  worship  of  the  high- 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  187 

priests  of  Mammon,  indicate  surely  and  painfully  a 
decay  of  honorable  feeling,  which,  though  still  lover 
of  my  kind,  sometimes  stirs  in  my  heart  gloomy  fears 
of  the  future.  I  would  have  my  country  honest — 
the  glitter  of  material  greatness  may  succeed,  not 
precede,  this  principle. 

"  But  what  shall  I  do  if  this  vandal,  Jellaway, 
attack  that  virgin  Shady  Side  ?  How  can  I  bear 
to  have  it  ruthlessly  subjugated  by  his  vulgar  crew  ? 
How  patiently  see  it  violated  by  axe  and  spade? 
how  see  its  slopes  dinted  and  trampled  ?  its  shady 
and  sacred  nooks  exposed  and  desecrated— its  grand 
old  trees  ravaged  and  destroyed  ?  Now,  where  calm 
and  beauty  and  poetry  have  their  precious  home, 
must  we  see  the  invasion  of  masonry,  timber,  profane 
workers,  vulgar  dwellings,  squalid  children,  mean  pur 
suits — must  we  see  this  grand  temple  of  nature  turned 
to  every  use  with  which  a  low  humanity  desecrate 
their  haunts,  and  render  vile  the  atmosphere  they 
breathe  ?  By  Diana  and  all  gods  and  goddesses  of 
grove  and  woodland,  it  must  not  be.  John  Jellaway, 
Builder,  touch  it  not,  I  charge  you,  or  the  sacrilege 
shall  find  its  Nemesis." 

"  If  we  could  only  buy  it,"  said  Maggie. 

"  I  am  not  rich  ;  neither  bonds,  bankers'  accounts, 
stocks,  silver,  or  precious  stones  are  mine.  The 
vineyard  I  have  been  cultivating  hath  grown  a  fruit 


i88  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

unknown  in  husbandry.  There  are  ripe  hangings, 
I  venture  to  claim,  but  the  purple  clusters  have  no 
price  in  mart  or  change.  Commerce,  the  Prince 
magnificent,  dusky  with  his  oriental  tint,  perfumed 
with  precious  fragrance,  robed  in  ermine  from  the  ice 
ridges,  and  in  silk  of  the  Indian  woof — knows  them 
not.  They  are  not  treasures  for  which  he  or  his  fol 
lowers  will  bid,  and  so  perforce,  their  value,  if  any 
value  they  possess,  must  exist  in  the  secret  flavor 
they  retain  for  their  otherwise  poverty-stricken  owner." 

"  The  fruits  that  ripen  hi  the  mind,  the  clusters  of 
wit,  fancy,  humor — for  such,  sir,  I  suppose  you  to 
mean — have,  I  am  sure,  some  value  beyond  that 
which  you  give  them.  Will  not  good  books  sell,  and 
make  money  ?" 

"  I  have  ere  this  shaken  my  boughs  in  the  public 
highway,  but  the  fruit  was  trampled  in  the  dust  un 
heeded.  An  anchorite's  dreams  thrust  amid  the 
busy  congregations  of  men,  is  like  the  appearance  of 
some  antipodean  stranger.  There  is  no  sympathy, 
identity  of  purpose,  commerce  of  intelligence,  unity 
of  feeling,  between  the  new  comer  and  those  amid 
whom  circumstances  have  launched  his  existence. 
The  crowd  stare,  perhaps  laugh,  but  pass  with 
shrugged  shoulders  by  ;  and  he,  chilled  to  the  heart, 
shrinks  away  from  the  public  gaze  and  hides  himself 
in  lowly  obscurity. 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  189 

"  I  do  not  complain.  It  is  natural.  I  have  a 
right  to  dream,  and  weave  such  fancies  as  I  please, 
but  I  cannot  demand  of  the  public  submissive  pa 
tience  to  my  small  voice  ;  I  cannot  expect  to  hang 
my  cobwebs  in  whatever  chamber  I  elect ;  or  blow 
my  bubbles,  so  meaningless  to  the  many,  wheresoever 
I  list.  I  have  not  taken  the  right  course  to  be  popu 
lar.  It  would  not  be  difficult  to  do  so  ;  the  applause 
of  the  people  is  easily  within  my  reach.  There  is 
the  ring,  and  here  the  clown's  motley.  The  public 
are  in  the  boxes.  It  is  but  a  glittering  bound,  a 
brisk  joke,  a  gay  caper  or  two,  and  success  is  mine — • 
the  plaudits  shall  ring  and  the  wreath  fall." 

"  Fame  is  beautiful,"  exclaimed  Maggie,  with  her 
eyes  flashing  ;  "  it  would  be  worth  any  struggle — 
any  sacrifice." 

"  So  youth  in  its  untamed  fervor  has  said  before. 
But  neither  the  young,  nor  all  of  the  old,  are  wise  in 
the  subtlest  of  all  wisdom,  the  knowledge  of  human 
passion.  There  are  land  rats  and  water  rats,  as  our 
old  friend  of  Stratford  has  said,  and  each  must  nibble, 
burrow,  steal,  and  flourish  in  his  own  element.  They 
cannot  '  hurly  burly,'  change  places,  and  grow  fat  as 
before.  And  so,  good  Mag,  there  are  underlying 
differences  in  human  organizations,  by  which  a  poet 
would  starve  where  an  alderman  grows  boozy  and 
rubicund  ;  and  a  philosopher  would  be  compelled  to 


190  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

bury  his  book  and  break  his  wand,  where  your  brisk 
citizen,  with  elastic  spring  to  his  ankle,  a  compla 
cently  vivacious  pat  upon  his  buttoned-up  breeches 
pocket,  and  a  smirk  smile  as  greasy  as  the  thumbed 
coin  he  covets,  will  roll  into  his  plethoric  bank  ac 
count,  his  swift  gains,  and  wax  hearty  under  the 
process.  These  differences  are  all  radical  and  chemi 
cal,  and  they  extend  into  infinite  ramifications.  I 
am  a  man  whose  imagination  warms  in  the  tints  of 
my  fire-light,  and  under  green  leaves,  but  hi  the  fever 
of  busy  life  I  am  lost.  My  temper  springs  up  angu 
lar  and  antagonistic  ;  I  bruise  myself  at  every  turn 
against  the  habits  and  sharp  manners  of  the  world  ; 
I  have  not  the  catch  of  popular  phrases,  and  cannot 
talk  with  those  commercial  potentates  who  rule  in 
cities  ;  I  have  not  the  manner  nor  the  address  of 
society,  and  flounder  hi  and  out  of  drawing-rooms 
like  a  whale  out  of  water  ;  and  being  unable  to  keep 
afloat  on  that  tide  of  eloquent  small  talk  which  mean 
ders  so  ripplingly  among  the  beaux  and  belles,  I  al 
ways  find  myself  stranded  in  gloomy  and  ponderous 
silence,  high  and  dry  above  the  currents  of  conversa 
tion. 

"  So  everywhere — so  in  everything,  Mag.  I  was 
not  born  for  success,  nor  for  the  battle  by  which  the 
crown  is  won.  The  clamor  of  the  universal  gold- 
hunt  stuns  me  ;  the  whirl  and  clatter  of  the  world 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  191 

unhitches  the  machinery  of  my  philosophy.  I  am 
nothing  if  not  ruminant,  and  by  my  utter  lack  of  the 
genius  to  do,  am  driven  into  burrows,  where  I  can 
only  peep  out  at  a  world  in  which  I  have  no  vocation 
to  mingle." 

"Yet  still,"  said  Maggie,  "I  think  your  voice 
might  be  heard  even  from  your  obscurity." 

"  It  would  be  as  easy  to  ascend  in  a  balloon  up  to 
the  cragged  edge  of  a  cloud,  and  there  address  the 
world  below  ;  or  as  wise  to  plunge  into  the  sea,  and 
piping  my  dull  song  in  the  ocean  caverns,  dream  of 
listeners  upon  the  busy  surface  above. 

"Maggie,  within  these  four  boundaries  I  am 
Caesar.  That  is  enough.  I  tread  here  the  universe. 
This  is  not  only  my  world,  but  the  world." 

"  Will  you  explain  that  ?" 

"The  natural  philosophers  assert  that  color  is 
only  sensation — where  the  eye,  for  instance,  does 
not  rest  upon  the  greenery  of  the  fields,  there  is  no 
greenery  there — 

" '  The  gay  tint  that  decks  the  vernal  rose, 
Not  in  the  flower,  but  in  our  vision  glows ; 
The  ripe  flavor  of  Falernian  tides, 
Not  in  the  wine  but  in  our  taste  resides.' 

I  make  this  philosophy  cover  things  material  after 
Bishop  Berkeley,  and  when  I  drop  the  curtains  to  my 
casements  I  shut  the  universe  within.  Sensation 


192  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

travels  out  from  its  home  in  the  brain,  and  just  so 
much  as  it  compasses — -just  so  far  as  it  extends, 
lie  the  boundaries  of  the  world.  Do  you  per 
ceive  ?" 

"Why,  the  doctrine  is  most  incomprehensible," 
exclaimed  Maggie,  a  little  inclined  to  be  sa 
tirical. 

"Very,"  I  exclaimed,  half  closing  my  eyes  and 
peering  at  the  fire  ;  "  but  Maggie,  if  you  can  tell  me 
what  the  world  is,  outside  of  your  sensations,  you 
may  begin." 

"  Everything,"  cried  Maggie,  vehemently.  "  A  past 
and  a  present " 

"  Memory  1"  echoed  the  philosopher,  still  peering 
at  the  fire. 

"  Yast  cities,  mighty  nations,  wonderful  physical 
beauty  " 

"  Imagination,"  cried  the  sonorous  echo. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  This.  If  the  yellow  gilding  of  yonder  frame  is 
not  yellow  at  all,  but  only  a  sensation  produced  by 
light  upon  the  eye,  why  may  not  the  frame  be  no 
frame  at  all,  but  merely  an  appearance  of  form  pro 
duced  by  natural  phenomena  upon  the  senses? 
Accepting  this  to  be  so,  then  this  pleasant  study 
of  mine,  being  for  the  time  just  the  flight  of 
the  conscious  senses,  is  the  world.  There  is  no  other. 


A  Bachelor's  Story. 


"  At  least,  Maggie,  you  and  I  must  make  it  so. 
Ah  !  let  the  rest  roll  on  unheeded.  Here  is  our 
happiness  ;  here  lies  abundantly  the  means  for  full, 
rich,  munificent  existence.  Believe  me,  the  wit 
grows  sharp  in  the  world,  but  the  imagination 
sickens  and  dies.  Here  it  flourishes,  puts  forth 
branches,  expands  into  wide  banners  in  the  ah*, 
strikes  deep  roots  into  the  soil.  Here  the  passions, 
the  desires,  the  will,  the  ambitions  are  chained  to  the 
heart  ;  they  can  leap  no  further  than  can  easily  be 
plucked  back  again.  But  amid  the  struggles  and 
the  stirrings  of  the  town,  they  rise  up  and  conquer 
the  jailer,  and  breaking  from  their  bonds,  rush  with 
passionate  zeal  into  the  tempest,  and  are  lost. 

"  Let  the  world  go,  Mag.  Be  not  aspiring  for  me 
or  for  yourself.  Take  your  ambitions  to  the  window 
and  give  them  wing.  Let  them  fly  from  you  forever." 

"  I  could  do  so,  for  you  bid  me  ;  but  I  should 
carry  a  heavy  heart  about  me  ever  afterwards.  Oh  ! 
that  I  were  a  man  1  Then  the  sun  would  shine,  the 
world  exist  for  me  !  All  things  are  for  your  sex  ; 
nothing  for  ours.  We  are  shown  fruit  we  cannot 
taste,  glories  we  cannot  claim,  a  life  whose  fullness 
we  are  shut  from  and  expelled.  Sir,  the  world  is  a 
feast,  in  which  we  are  thrust  into  the  kitchen." 

"  A  feast  !  If  so,  like  many  grand  dinners,  much 
show  and  starved  guests." 

9 


194  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

Maggie  jumped  to  her  feet,  and  running  to  the 
window  thrust  her  body  behind  the  curtains  ;  against 
the  panes  she  thrummed  with  a  rapid  tattoo,  then 
suddenly  broke  from  her  screen  into  the  room,  and 
hastily  paced  to  and  fro  from  wall  to  wall. 

"  In  everything — everywhere,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  there  is  the  same  thing — honor  for  men  ;  ob 
scurity  and  contempt  for  women.  Up  all  the  avenues 
you  climb  there  are  gates  which  bar  out  us  ;  which 
ever  way  lies  preferment,  there  you  command  us  not 
to  look  ;  all  attainments  that  might  lead  to  accom 
plishment  you  debar  us  from.  Sir,  the  world  is  not 
just,  nor  true,  nor  honorable  to  women  !  It  never 
has  been  ! — in  no  age,  in  no  country,  and  yet  there 
have  been  Zenobias,  and  Joans,  and  Catherines,  and 
many  mighty  women.  We  can  be  as  great  as  you, 
why  then  do  you  exclude  us  from  the  paths  you 
tread  ?" 

"  Bless  me,  Mag  !  Why  I  have  been  like  a  town, 
built  with  innocent  security  upon  the  side  of  a  vol 
cano.  There  is  an  eruption,  and  I  am  deluged  with 
fire  and  ashes." 

"  Please  do  not  mock  me,  sir." 

"  Maggie,  hear  a  wise  saw  ;  the  intellect  feminine 
can  attain  to  no  such  altitude  as  that  reached  by 
ours,  for  a  great  woman  invariably  loses  the  dis 
tinguishing  characteristics  of  the  feminine  mind.  In 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  195 

becoming  great  she  ceases  to  be  a  woman  !  Your 
Elizabeths,  Zenobias,  Catherines  were  remarkable, 
but  just  so  far  as  they  approached  the  standard  of 
masculine  vigor  and  force  they  proved  foreign  to  the 
true  type  of  your  sex." 
"  Can  this  be  so  ?" 

"  Think  of  it.  Absolute  intellectuality  is  so  far 
removed  from  the  accepted  and  desirable  condition 
of  women,  that  those  cases  which  you  cite  as  evi 
dence  of  your  equality  are  merely  monuments  which 
prove  the  rule  by  illustrating  the  exceptions." 

" Still,  still,"  cried  Maggie  ;  "I  have  ambitions 
and  strong  wishes  ;  they  are  as  natural  to  me  as  to 
you.  I  long  for  something  higher  and  nobler  than 
has  yet  befallen  me." 

"  To  many  young  people,  Maggie,  the  heart  is  the 
mirror  of  the  brain,  and  they  occupy  themselves  by 
perpetually  measuring  the  capacity  of  the  reflection. 
You  are  one  of  these.  You  sit  for  hours  looking 
into  the  glass — a  self-consciousness  which  is  not 
healthy  nor  honest  is  the  consequence. 

"  Still  I  judge  you  tenderly.  Your  bark  has  not 
yet  sailed  into  that  current  upon  which  alone  it  can 
float  buoyantly  and  true.  There  is  but  one  goal, 
Mag,  to  which  the  nature  and  instincts  of  woman 
points  ;  but  one  fruition  that  crowns  her  with  the 
pure  and  tender  glory  which  all  the  world,  and  all 


196  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

nature  applauds  and  worships  1  And  this  fruition  is 
so  unmistakably  the  true  ripeness  of  her  being,  so 
clearly  the  harvest  and  summer  of  her  destiny,  that 
all  other  hopes,  desires,  seekings,  are  proofs  of  a 
heart  whose  compass  is  not  poised,  whose  needle  is 
disordered  by  false  attraction." 

"  I  think  I  know  what  you  mean." 

"  Ah,  Mag  !  fly  your  grand  heights  ;  dream  of 
fame,  aspire  to  such  things  and  attempt  to  win  such 
glories  as  you  may,  still  shall  you  be  plucked  back  to 
our  feet  by  a  power  by  which  we  shall  be  your  mas 
ters  so  long  as  the  stars  are  lighted  by  the  sun." 

"And  that  is" 

"  Love  !" 

Why  did  Maggie  drop  her  head  until  the  long 
curls  fell  in  a  thick  screen  over  her  face  ?  and  why 
was  she  so  suddenly  hushed  and  still  ! 

For  three  minutes  the  clock  ticked  with  great 
briskness,  and  the  wind,  unheeded  before,  rose  to  a 
shrill,  melancholy  whistle.  Then  I  broke  the 
silence :  • 

"  If  effort  must  be  yours,  Maggie,  if  that  unresting 
heart  hungers  for  other  food  than  that  which  lies  in 
the  common  paths,  let  me  at  least  aid  you  a  little — 
let  me  be  to  you  a  guide-post,  pointing,  with  melan 
choly  finger,  the  safest  of  many  roads,  and  yet  most 
unwilling  to  see  you  follow  any." 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  197 

"  Tell  me  all  you  can,  sir,"  said  Maggie.  But  her 
voice  was  husky  and  low. 

"  Of  the  arts  which  are  sought  for  as  avenues  that 
lead  to  that  grand  height  upon  which  youth  sets  its 
wishes,  there  is  one  I  will  name,  which  to  a  sympa 
thetic  nature  offers  many  sweets,  even  in  its  severest 
efforts.  To  impressibility  like  yours,  other  things 
being  favorable,  I  believe  it  to  be  happily  adapted. 
Look  around  you.  I  mean  that  art  which  tells  its 
tales  of  eloquence  and  beauty  upon  my  walls." 

"  Yes,  yes!"  exclaimed  Maggie,  eagerly. 

"It  is  an  art  which  allures  with  its  promise  of 
fame,  and  supplies  in  itself  abundant  delights.  It 
absorbs  completely;  it  takes  possession  of  the  imagi 
nation  more  keenly  than  any  other,  and  supplies  to 
fullness  food  for  both  heart  and  brain.  The  passions 
and  the  intellect,  the  sensibilities  and  the  aspirations, 
are  alike  aroused  and  employed.  With  the  poet, 
whether  he  be  of  canvas  or  verse,  exists  ever  the 
necessity  to  create;  and  this  necessity,  which  under 
lies  and  causes  much  of  that  unrest  so  common  to 
genius,  is  afforded  rich  fruition  with  the  painter.  Forms 
of  beauty  daily  grow  into  life  before  him  ;  under  his 
skillful  pencil  spring  into  vital  shape  and  color  those 
dreams  which,  with  others,  must  still  exist  in  the 
imagination  only ;  and  assuming  this  bodily  form  and 
pressure,  they  prove  both  his  rapture  and  his  glory." 


198  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

Maggie  again  began  that  rapid  tread  of  the 
floor. 

"  But,"  inquired  she,  "  is  it  not  an  art  which  re 
quires  a  special  genius  ?" 

"  The  arts,  Maggie,  are  all  of  a  kin — a  common 
sensibility  fathers  them  all.  Not  far  from  that  feel 
ing  which  can  transport  to  canvas  the  tender  beauty 
of  a  landscape,  is  its  fellow  which  paints  the  lights, 
shades,  blending  tints  and  soft  harmonies  of  a  pic 
ture  in  the  happy  utterance  and  melodious  measure 
of  words." 

"But  can  I  be  an  artist ?"  exclaimed  Maggie,  ab 
ruptly.  "  Tell  me,  sir,  what  you  think  1" 

"Have  you  feeling  for  color?  sympathy  with 
nature  so'  intense,  that  you  can  read  her  heart  and 
enter  into  her  spirit  better  than  the  ordinary  mortal  ? 
have  you  power  to  reproduce,  in  form,  your  impres 
sions,  and  have  you  that  vitality  of  imagination  which 
can  put  itself,  at  will,  into  circumstances  and  scenes 
remote  from  its  own  experience  ?  If  you  have  all 
these,  which  I  am  inclined  to  admit,  there  must  be 
added  certain  special,  but  minor  qualities,  which  cul 
tivation  cannot  create,  but  will  vastly  develop." 

Maggie  resumed  her  seat,  which  was  still  close  by 
my  side. 

"  I  know  but  little  of  my  own  talents,"  said  she  ; 
"  but  I  recall  circumstances  of  early  tastes,  which 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  199 

give  me  hope.  And  I  recollect,  too,  an  old  adage  of 
yours." 

"  What  was  that  ?" 

"  To  try  is  to  succeed  !" 

"  I  have  not  suggested  this  path  to  yon,  Maggie," 
said  I,  "  without  a  belief,  founded  upon  some  obser 
vation,  that  your  talents  could  shape  themselves  that 
way." 

Maggie  parted  from  me  that  evening  hi  great  glee; 
and  I,  for  once,  in  a  parental  way,  kissed  her  fore 
head  when  I  bade  her  good-night. 


XII. 

Patrick  and  his  epistolary  passion — In  grief  over  the 
remains  of  an  old  friend — A  monody — An  apostrophe 
to  the  elements,  in  the  midst  of  which  an  erratic  star 
shoots  among  us — The  Happy  Philosopher  and  his  wise 
sayings — By  the  pricking  of  my  thumb,  shadows  my 
»vay  come. 


9*  201 


XII. 

THE  hearth  was  swept,  the  candles  lighted,  and 
a  fine  aphorism  just  on  the  point  of  deliver j; 
when  I  was  interrupted  by  a  knock  at  the  door — a 
low,  hesitating  knock — then  the  entrance  of  Patrick 
with  a  letter  between  thumb  and  finger. 

Patrick  is  my  factotum  ;  my  valet,  when  I  need  a 
valet ;  my  gardener,  groom,  butler,  secretary,  clerk 
and  waiter.  When  I  saw  the  letter  in  his  hand, 
and  observed  his  unusually  embarrassed  manner,  I 
knew  something  had  happened,  and  that  the  letter, 
indited  by  himself,  conveyed  the  intelligence.  For 
Pat  is  inspired  with  an  epistolary  passion.  He 
sends  me  formal  weekly  letters  upon  the  state  of 
affairs.  If  a  chicken  die  of  the  croup,  the  fact  is 
decorously  and  solemnly  communicated  under  seal ; 
if  the  pigs  get  into  his  corn-patch  ;  if  any  of  the 
creatures  about  the  place  are  ill ;  if  a  litter  of  pups, 
or  a  family  of  kittens,  or  a  colony  of  pigs  are  added 
to  my  household,  Pat  rushes  to  pen  and  paper.  He 
keeps  incessantly  writing  to  me.  I  might  meet  him 

208 


204  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

at  nine  o'clock,  and  at  half-past  find  on  my  table 
the  inevitable  letter,  detailing  events  fresh  in  his 
mind  at  the  time  of  the  interview.  This  passion 
would  not  be  so  remarkable  if  he  were  a  fluent  or  an 
easy  writer,  but  it  is  evidently  a  huge  labor  for  him 
to  pen  his  sentences,  as  it  is  certainly  a  huge  labor 
for  me  to  decipher  them. 

"  Well,  what  is  it,  Pat  ?"  said  I,  putting  out  my 
hand  to  secure  the  letter.  Its  meaning  if  not  its 
language  was  soon  comprehended.  It  related,  in 
Pat's  own  curious  orthography,  the  death  of  my 
pony.  I  transcribe  it  literally  : 

"ONERED  SUR — 

"  Yer  onor  dide  this  evenin  in  is  staybil  as  i  was  goin 
To  milken  withe  the  blinde  staggrs  yer  onors  boss  pone  he 
was  sik  the  last  night  i  guv  im  the  medsin  yer  onor  tuk  yer- 
eelf.  From  the  chist  wich  Did  him  no  good  at  alle  until  he 
dide."  "  Yer  onors  umble  sarvent,  umbly 

"  PATRICK." 

"  My  favorite  pony,  Maggie." 

"  Ah,  sir,  and  mine,  too." 

"  Alas,  poor  Yorick  I  He  hath  borne  me  on  his 
back  a  thousand  times." 

"  Bedad,  sir,"  exclaimed  Patrick,  "  you've  forgot 
ten  the  beast's  name.  It  was  Jack,  sir." 

"  Ah,  Pat,  you  know  nothing  of  Shakspeare." 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  205 

"  Which,  sir  ?" 

Maggie  laughed  at  Pat's  puzzled  look,  and  said : 
"  You  must  bury  him  decently,  Patrick.  Peace  to 
his  manes  I" 

"  Manes,  miss,"  exclaimed  Pat,  for  Maggie's  pro 
nunciation  was  scarcely  classical,  "manes!  sure,  he 
has  but  one,  unless  you  count  his  tail." 

This  blunder  was  too  much  for  either  Maggie  or 
me  ;  we  both  laughed  heartily,  while  we  dispatched 
Pat  with  directions  as  to  the  disposition  of  the 
body. 

But  when  Patrick  withdrew,  our  mirth  subsided, 
and  we  grew  sad  instead.  For  Jack  was  a  favorite. 
Maggie  never  came  near  him  without  throwing  her 
arms  around  his  neck,  and  laying  her  smooth  cheek 
next  to  his  face.  Many  a  time,  in  those  abandon 
ments  of  mirth  and  impulse  so  frequent  with  her, 
I've  seen  her  leap  upon  his  back,  without  saddle, 
and  urge  him  to  a  free  gallop  around  the  pasturage. 
And  Jack  loved  Maggie.  Did  he  hear  her  voice,  or 
detect  by  any  means  her  nearness,  he  would  hasten 
to  her  side,  thrust  his  nose  over  her  shoulder,  and 
manifest  hi  various  ways  his  affection  and  sympathy. 

"What  do  yon  say,  Mag?"  said  I  after  a  brief 
pause,  "  shall  we  go  and  look  at  Jack  ?  There  is  a 
moon." 

Maggie  assented,  and  we  went  together. 


206  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

There  was  scenery  in  the  heavens.  All  along  up 
the  northern  sky  the  scattered  hosts  of  some  storm- 
battle  were  fleeing  with  wild  haste — -jagged,  torn, 
broken  masses  of  clouds,  speeding  with  frightened 
aspect  from  pursuing  winds.  The  moon  was  high, 
and  poured  down  her  silver  radiance  between  two 
dense  train-clouds,  which  tore  headlong  by,  as  if 
picked  into  precipitancy  by  the  spur  of  goblin,  or 
sprite,  or  some  cloud-bestrider  of  fable. 

The  moon  glittered  a  sheen-path  from  the  house- 
door  to  the  straw-stretched  remains  of  poor  Jack. 
He  lay  in  the  air,  and  the  moon  in  her  marble  light 
gleamed  cold  and  sepulchrally  upon  the  stilled 
limbs. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  cried  Maggie,  with  tears  in  her  voice, 
"  I  loved  him  !  Indeed  I  loved  him  1" 

"  Hm  1"  exclaimed  the  philosopher,  just  as  a  puff 
of  wind  leaped  in  his  teeth,  and  strangled  a  sigh  in 
the  thorax,  "  he  had  no  lordly  pedigree.  He  was 
not  great,  nor  swift,  and  he  liked  better  a  lazy  browse 
on  side-hill  grass,  than  ambitious  scamperings.  There 
was  always  meditation  in  his  eye,  and  when  he  bore 
me  into  woodland  paths,  he  would  pause  in  those 
secluded  glades  so  sweet  for  reverie,  and  with  reins 
slipped  to  the  ears,  clip  the  crisp  herbage,  patiently 
attendant  upon  my  dreams.  There  are  warlike 
people,  Mag,  who  tell  us  of  wonders  of  valor  per- 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  207 

formed  in  the  saddle,  but  mild  achievements  were 
they  all  compared  to  mine  upon  the  back  of  poor 
Jack.  I've  crowned  myself  victorious  in  many  a 
battle  with  learned  subtlety,  in  science  or  philosophy, 
as  absorbed  to  my  eyes  in  my  pocket-volume,  he 
hath  trudged  with  me  through  quiet  by-paths,  with 
rein  on  neck.  We  have  tilted  together  at  hard 
facts,  and  charged  upon  broken-winded  crotchets, 
and  clashed  lance  against  the  brazen  shield  of  so 
phistry  !  Could  Jack  speak,  he  would  recount,  I  am 
sure,  of  whole  battalions  of  false  logic  being  put  to 
rout  by  us.  And  now,  alas  !  the  old  war-horse  is 
dead.  Mag  " 

I  turned,  but  Maggie  was  not  there.  In  an  in 
stant  she  came  running  back  with  some  evergreen 
branches  in  her  hand,  which  she  flung  upon  the  body 
of  Jack. 

"  Now,  Pat,"  said  I,  when  this  bit  of  tender  feel 
ing  was  over,  "  do  the  rest.  Give  him  decent 
burial." 

"  As  decent  burial,  sir,  as  a  Christian  could  want. 
Sure,  he  was  a  noble  creature,  and  sorry  will  it  be  to 
see  him  no  more  in  this  world." 

"  Gracious,  Pat,"  exclaimed  Mag,  "  what  do  you 
mean  by  no  more  in  this  world  ?" 

"  Why,  miss,"  said  Pat,  vigorously  rubbing  his 
ear,  "  I  know  that  horses  havn't  no  souls  ;  but  sure, 


208  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

Jack  was  so  tinder-hearted,  and  had  such  a  knowin' 
way  of  lookin'  at  you,  and  would  put  his  nose  in 
your  face  so  affectionate  like,  and  his  ways  ginerally 
were  so  intilligent,  that  may  be,  as  it  would  seem, 
his  own  nature  got  exchanged  with  some  Christian- 
born  gentleman,  Mr.  Jellaway,  say,  who,  saving  yer 
honor,  was  much  the  biggest  baste  of  the  two." 

In  Pat's  circumlocutory  eulogy  Jack  certainly  was 
duly  praised,  but  I  am  afraid  if  my  reader  attempt 
an  exact  translation  it  would  be  difficult  to  deter 
mine  whether  I,  or  John  Jellaway,  Builder,  came  the 
most  honorably  off.  But  to  steer  through  a  long 
sentence  safely,  without  bull  or  blunder,  was  a  mar 
vellous  thing  for  Pat  to  accomplish,  and  so  crowning 
his  intention  with  approval,  I  let  the  ambiguous  com 
pliment  go. 

"What  a  night,"  I  uttered,  as  Maggie  and  I 
slowly  wended  our  way  back.  "  This  is  a  balcony 
box ;  the  sky  is  a  stage,  and  before  us  move  the 
brisk  scenes,  the  shift  and  play  of  a  drama.  These 
tearing,  termagant  clouds  are  the  actors." 

"  They  seem  inspired  with  the  divine  afflatus,"  said 
Maggie,  demurely. 

"  Hi !  By  Jupiter,  the  heir  treads  upon  the  heel  of 
the  king.  You  will  crowd  me  from  my  throne  some 
day,  Mag,  and  snatch  from  my  hand  the  wand  of  talk. 
But  well  said,  heir  apparent.  The  jest  was  good." 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  209 

"  Heir  apparent  to  what,  sir  ?" 

"  To  what  ?  Do  you  not  know  your  inheritance  ? 
To  the  throne  by  my  fireside,  and  the  realm  universal, 
whose  boundaries  the  telescope  cannot  discover.  It 
is  the  grandest  sovereignty  in  the  world,  Mag,  and  ii 
is  called  Imagination." 

"  It  has  many  kings,"  suggested  Maggie. 

"  Yes.  It  is  an  empire  in  which  all  poets  and  wits 
are  rulers  ;  or  rather,  a  republic  of  sovereigns,  in 
which  every  mind  is  absolute  just  so  far  as  it 
possesses  native  power. 

"  But  look  I  this  sky !  By  Luna,  the  scene  is 
grand.  How  swift  the  moon  appears  to  rush  through 
the  space  !  To  what  can  we  liken  her,  Mag  ?  To 
a  stag,  let  us  say,  and  those  clouds  are  the  pursuing 
hounds.  She  has  a  frightened,  staring  look  ;  there 
is  bewilderment  and  imploring  pity  in  her  white  face. 
She  is  surrounded,  and  yet  the  panting  pack  fall  back 
as  she  speeds  swiftly  and  surely  on.  This  is  such  a 
race,  Mag,  as  recalls  those  Olympian  ones  in  which 
chariot  locked  with  chariot,  whirled  around  the  Gre 
cian  plain.  Then  fair  maids  whipped  the  steeds  into 
frantic  swiftness  ;  now  it  is  old  Boreas,  from  his  ice- 
throne  in  the  north,  who  hurls  those  clouds  upon  the 
flying  moon,  and  spurs  them  onward." 

Just  then  we  emerged  into  an  open  space,  unpro 
tected  by  house  or  tree,  and  the  winds  came  rushing 


210  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

down  from  the  heavens  and  flung  themselves  with  a 
shriek  in  our  arms.  Maggie's  long  locks  they  caught 
and  flung  out  like  a  banner  ;  they  rushed  into  her 
eyes  and  squeezed  out  a  tear  or  two  ;  thrummed  in 
her  ears  ;  with  a  rollicking  roar  snatched  free  kisses 
from  her  cheeks  and  lips  ;  then,  discovering  no  more 
specific  gravity  in  my  fifty  years  than  in  Maggie's  six 
teen,  darted  upon  me  with  a  howl,  and  whisking  the 
breath  out  of  my  lungs  and  the  hat  from  my  head, 
rushed  off  with  their  trophies  headlong. 

The  first  I  speedily  succeeded  in  recovering,  but 
the  second  taking  lodgment  in  the  upper  branches 
of  a  tree,  left  me  bare-headed  in  the  wind,  my  locks 
streaming  like  pennants  from  a  turret.  But  a  lithe 
figure  came  rolling  out  of  a  door-way,  and  hurrying 
to  the  tree,  soon  secured  the  fugitive,  so  unceremo 
niously  decamped  with. 

"  It's  late,  and  ever  so  cold,"  muttered  Ike,  for  it 
was  he,  as  he  restored  the  hat  to  my  hand.  I  did 
not  heed  him,  but  suddenly  recollecting  a  passage  in 
Thomson,  I  threw  myself  in  attitude,  and  began  : 

"  Ye  too,  ye  winds  !  that  now  begin  to  blow 
With  boisterous  sweep,  I  raise  my  voice  to  you." 

"  Holloa!"  cried  a  stentorian  voice  suddenly,  as  a 
figure  approached  and  leaned  on  the  garden-paling. 

"  Holloa  1"  exclaimed  I,  putting  on  my  hat — and  a 
little  pique,  at  this  unceremonious  interruption. 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  211 

"James!" 

"Reuben!" 

These  exclamations  went  off  simultaneously,  and 
then,  as  the  stranger  leaped  over  the  low  fence,  I  ran 
forward  with  great  eagerness  to  seize  his  hand.  For 
upon  the  second  sound  of  his  voice,  I  perceived  he 
was  one  for  whom  I  cherished  friendly  memories. 

"  Once  my  companion;  always  my  friend,"  said  I, 
as  I  led  him  up  to  Maggie. 

"  And  the  luckiest  chance  to  discover  you,"  said 
he,  with  a  free  bow  to  Maggie,  and  a  tremendous 
grasp  of  my  hand. 

Maggie  scanned  him  curiously  and  with  admiration. 
A  large  build,  a  broad,  free,  swinging  gait,  a  hearty 
voice,  a  fresh  complexion — comely  and  admirable, 
truly,  notwithstanding  a  few  travel-stains  and  rents 
in  his  garb. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  I,  as  we  all  (all  but  Ike),  entered 
my  study  together,  "  it  is  five  years,  by  the  scythe 
of  old  Tune,  since  we  met;  and  you,  0  Philosopher, 
are  as  free,  happy,  good-for-nothing,  excellent  as  when 
I  watched  you  mixing  pigments  in  tunes  of  yore; — 
eh?" 

"  To  be  sure.  I  follow  my  humor  now  as  then.  I 
amuse  myself  by  snapping  my  fingers  at  fortune  ; 
making  mouths  at  her;  I  go  and  come  as  I  list ;  I 
defy  good  and  ill-luck ;  and  I  sleep  soundly.  But 


212  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

you  were  one  of  the  wise  ones  who  worked  for  fame, 
while  life  and  happiness  tripped  you  up  and  slipped 
by." 

"  Not  so  much  fame,  Reuben,  as  bread  and  butter. 
I  was  civilized  enough  to  eat  my  dough  cooked,  that 
was  all." 

"Pshaw!"  exclaimed  he,  with  an  emphasis  that 
sounded  like  the  letting  off  a  small  ordnance,  "  civiliza 
tion  1  If  to  eat  my  dough  cooked  required  care 
enough  to  kill  a  gnat,  I'd  forswear  bakers,  and  live 
on  husks.  The  fact  is,  Maggie,"  (Maggie  at  the  first 
jump!)  "  I'm  the  only  philosopher  hi  the  world.  I've 
discovered  the  elixir  and  the  philosopher's  stone." 

Maggie,  all  alive,  her  eyes  dilated,  asked  for  an 
explanation. 

"  I  create  wealth  by  having  no  wants.  None!  A 
handful  of  pebbles  serve  me  as  well  as  a  handful  of 
eagles;  as  for  the  elixir — that  is  a  compound  of  the 
simples  patience  and  contentment.  It  might  be  called 
anti-worry.." 

"  A  good  specific." 

"A  universal  panacea!  It  would  starve  grave- 
diggers  and  shut  up  the  cemeteries." 

"  But  there  are  real  cares,"  said  Maggie,  "  which 
cannot  be  avoided — must  be  borne." 

"  A  mistake  !"  exclaimed  the  philosopher,  with 
crushing  force. 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  213 

"I  do  not  see,"  said  Maggie,  "how  your  philo 
sophy  can  prove  it." 

"  Suffering,"  said  I,  "as  Shylock  says,  is  the 
badge  of  our  tribe." 

"  No  !"  replied  the  stentorian  voice  again  ;  "  the 
world  is  full  of  superfluities.  Everything  I  own  or 
gain  is  an  excess  above  my  needs,  sunshine  and  ap 
petite  being  the  only  positive  essentials  of  existence. 
Care  is  nothing  but  anxiety  about  these  superfluities  ; 
calamity  and  misfortune  the  loss  merely  of  certain 
incumbrances  of  life.  While  the  sun  shines,  grass 
grows  and  water  runs,  man  has  enough  ;  the  rest  is 
only  leather  and  prunello.  '  The  poorest  beggar  is 
superfluous  even  in  his  rags.'  So  King  Lear,  Mag 
gie  ;  don't  know  him,  I  suppose." 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  exclaimed  Maggie,  with  consider 
able  warmth. 

"We  cry  over  broken  toys,"  resumed  Reuben, 
"and  talk  of  sorrow.  There  are  no  real  misfor 
tunes." 

"  Oh,  sir  1  the  death  of  our  friends  !" 

"  To  die  is  to  slip  off  old  clothes  and  put  on  new. 
What  misfortune  is  there  in  that  ?" 

Maggie  shook  her  head. 

"  Life  1"  continued  he.  "  There  is  my  philosophy 
in  one  word.  The  world  is  mine,  and  there  isn't  a 
rich  man's  house,  or  a  poor  man's  cot,  or  a  bit  of 


214  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

color,  or  a  sweet  odor,  or  a  white  cloud,  or  shapely 
tree,  or  odd  rock,  or  rippling  brook  that  isn't  mine 
to  enjoy  ;  and  I  enjoy  it." 

"  And  really  never  wish  to  be  greater  or  richer  ? 
Have  no  ambition  ?" 

"  Do  I  cry  for  the  moon  ?" 

"  And  have  no  care  ?" 

"  To  keep  my  coat  dry  when  it  rains ;  no 
other." 

"You've  heard  Reuben  Dale's  creed,  Maggie," 
said  I ;  "  hear  mine.  Poverty  is  the  Icing  of  evil — 
the  greatest  calamity  that  can  befall." 

"  No,  no,"  exclaimed  both  my  listeners  at  once. 

"  Yes.  Other  misfortunes  are  sorrows  which  dig 
nify  ;  they  have  sweet  association  and  holy  memo 
ries.  They  elevate  and  chasten  ;  they  are  links, 
sometimes  with  heaven — sometimes  with  the  heart 
of  humanity.  But  poverty  degrades  ;  it  alone  is 
mean,  despicable,  low.  It  thrusts  men  into  con 
tempt  and  servitude  ;  it  robs  them  of  manhood  ;  it 
deprives  the  cheek  of  its  bloom,  the  step  of  its  light 
ness,  the  soul  of  its  courage  I  It  consumes  heart, 
affection,  tenderness,  love,  and  every  good  and 
human  thing  about  us.  You  little  know  what  devils 
perpetual  deprivation,  ceaseless  care  and  daily 
drudgery  will  make  of  men." 

"  False  !"  exclaimed  the  happy  philosopher.     "  By 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  215" 

humanity,  false  1  Poverty  is  only  misfortune  when 
wishes  keep  the  purse-strings.  Poverty  is  the 
normal  condition  of  man  ;  neither  banks,  stocks, 
dividends,  houses,  rents  were  dreamed  of  in  Eden. 
Adam  was  happy,  and  never  saw  a  check-book  in  his 
life." 

Maggie  gave  more  mirth  to  this  last  conceit  than 
I  thought  it  deserved. 

"  Come,  Reuben,"  said  I,  "  tell  us  how  flourish  the 
arts?  How  many  square  feet  of  canvas  are  you 
pledged  for  ?" 

"  Is  Mr.  Dale  an  artist  ?"  cried  Maggie,  with 
brightening  eyes. 

"  A  vagabond,  Mag,"  said  he,  quietly  patting  her 
hand  as  it  lay  on  her  knee.  (I  doubt  if  he  would 
not  kiss  the  Sultan's  favorite  in  five-and-twenty 
minutes'  acquaintance.)  "  A  vagabond,  Mag,  with 
caprice  at  the  helm  ;  roving,  halting,  coming,  going, 
idling  or  working  as  humor  or  impulse  rule  me.  I 
love  pictures,  and  so  whistle  and  sing  over  the  can 
vas  ;  but  there  is  Gipsy  in  my  blood.  I  am  a 
growth  that  lives  in  the  air,  but  cannot  root  in  the 
soil.  Adhesion  is  a  quality  unknown  to  my  com 
position  ;  hence,  unlike  fellow-artists,  sweating  with 
the  fear  of  the  academy  in  their  eyes,  and  waxing 
yellow  with  jaundice  of  hope  deferred,  you  see  me 
Prince  of  myself,  playing  at  shuttle-cock  with  my 


216  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

wishes  ;  tossing  wants,  temptations,  sorrows  into  the 
air  with  thumb  and  finger." 

"I  remember,"  said  I,  "the  saying  of  an  old 
author — poverty  is  the  mother  of  modesty.  I  am 
learning  fast  that  he  was  wrong." 

"  By  Angelo,  you  are  right  I  A  divinity  hedges  in  a 
man  who  has  no  wants.  I  am  proud  of  my  poverty." 

"It  sits  gracefully  upon  you,  I  confess.  But 
beware  how  you  think  to  stretch  your  rags  over 
another." 

I  saw  him  with  his  eyes  greedily  and  widely 
fixed  upon  Maggie. 

"  Bless  me,"  said  he,  replying  to  me  but  with  his 
gaze  still  resting  upon  the  cheek  of  Maggie,  "  bless 
me,  they  stretch  over  numerous  others.  My  pic 
tures  inherit  their  master's  poverty.  The  slattern 
brats  get  no  pity  from  the  world,  and  sit  like  beg 
gars  on  the  highway." 

"  Unappreciated  ?" 

"Not  always.  But  there  is  an  odd  fatality 
about  them.  There  is  an  abundance  of  sympathiz 
ing  gentlemen  with  pockets  as  desolate  as  mine 
who  are  munificent  in  praises  ;  but  oddly  enough, 
these  people  with  money  inevitably  lack  the  appre 
ciation.  There  is  rarely  conjunction  between 
the  two  qualities ;  they  do  not  jostle  ;  they  travel 
different  roads." 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  217 

"Then  let  me  warn  you.  Seek  to  imprison  no 
free  heart  in  your  city  dungeon  " 

"  Sir,"  said  the  artist,  "  my  dungeon  is  a  house 
top.  You  can  look  at  the  stars." 

"  That  is  not  enough." 

"  Enough  1  It  is  a  throne.  I  have  an  attic  with 
a  curtain  of  chintz  which  divides  my  art  from  the 
man  natural.  On  one  side  the  heavens  pour  down  a 
flood  of  light  upon  my  canvases  ;  on  the  other,  I  hide 
the  paraphernalia  which  attends  sleeping  and  eating. 
Here  I  sing,  I  laugh,  I  chat,  live  Empereur  ;  and 
paint  most  worshipfully,  as  I  please.  Enough  ?  If 
rubies  cropped  up  in  my  path  ;  if  Fortunatus  shook 
showers  of  gold  before  my  eyes  ;  if  the  Indies  turned 
their  currents  of  wealth  through  my  poor  chamber — 
hear  me,  sir, — there  would  be  less,  not  more  1" 

"  Solve  this  newest  problem." 

"This  have  I  proved  ;  what  the  purse  gains, 
the  heart  loses ;  and  the  true  richness  of  life,  the 
sum  of  its  wealth,  is  not  in  ingots  but  heart-bounds. 
By  Adam  !  the  Ready  Reckoner  was  unthought  of 
in  the  plan  of  creation.  The  crown  of  complete 
ness  does  not  belong  to  rent-rolls,  and  plethoric 
money-bags,  but  to  him  whose  life  in  its  sym 
pathies  and  its  human  ramifications  is  Briarean  1" 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Maggie,  "  are  you  always  as 
happy  as  you  a,re  now  ?" 

10 


218  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

"I  strut  ;  flap  my  wings  in  the  face  of  the 
world ;  bestride  my  whims  and  ride  them  where 
they  list ;  owe  no  man  anything  but  politeness,  in 
which  I  sometimes  over-pay  ;  and  lastly,  have  a 
quick  eye  for  sunshine.  Now  you  are  melancholy." 

"  Sometimes." 

"Your  eyes  are  olive  shaped  ;  the  lids  droop 
half-pendent  ;  the  pupils  swim  in  moist  senti 
ment  ;  your  mouth  has  the  pensive  curve  ;  in  your 
forehead  that  bulges  over  the  lines  of  your  face 
lives  a  drowsy  and  down-reaching  rumination  : 
your  brain,  in  fact,  is  rocked  dreamily  in  a  dun, 
shadowed  vale.  Mine  sparkles  in  the  sun.  Do  you 
see  the  difference  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  exclaimed  Maggie,  with  a  quick, 
vehement  gesture  in  the  air. 

"Sunshine  and  shadow,"  said  I,  "are  the  in 
separable  obverse  and  reverse  of  all  life  and  sub 
stance." 

"To  be  sure,"  replied  the  artist  in  his  queer 
way  ;  "  the  obverse,  sunshine,  is  life  ;  the  reverse, 
shadow,  is  the  under  side  of  the  sod." 

I  confess  that  when  he  said  this  thing  a  thrill 
shot  through  me — for  the  thought  stalked  in  among 
our  light  humors  like  a  skeleton  at  a  feast. 

"  For  my  part,"  resumed  he,  "I  crowd  all  the 
sunshine  I  can  into  my  life,  just  as  I  crowd  it  into 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  219 

my  canvases  ;  but  you,  Sir  Knight  of  the  Whim 
per,  you — I  knew  him  once,  Maggie,  as  fresh  and 
gay  as  a  June  rose — you,  I  say,  have  shut  up  your 
heart  in  a  cavern  :  have  put  your  temper  in  sack 
cloth  and  ashes  ;  have  Timoned  yourself  in  this  dull 
fashion  !" 

"  No ;  the  fashion  has  not  been  dull.  Maggie 
shall  tell  you  some  day  how  a  bachelor's  whiter 
hearth  can  brighten  and  be  happy." 

"  I  can,"  replied  Maggie,  absently. 

"With  melancholy,  no  doubt  ;  with  sighs  that 
have  spun  themselves  in  a  web  around  you.  Are 
you  not  two  melancholy  ones  ?  Do  you  not  eat 
the  sour  side  of  the  peach  ?  Hence,  then,  upon 
your  winter  hearth  have  sat  the  Sphinx,  the  Raven, 
the  melancholy  Muse — grim  Egyptian  shadows,  and 
weird  shapes  !  You  have  been  Niobes,  I  dare  say, 
all  tears." 

"  Infidel  1"  exclaimed  I,  with  warmth.  "  Why,  we 
have  capered  ;  shook  our  bells  and  frisked  in  mot 
ley  !  Absolutely,  Mag,  this  fellow  has  stolen  a 
bit  of  sunshine,  and  running  off  into  a  corner,  fan 
cies  all  the  rest  of  the  world  drowned  in  darkness." 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  cried  Ike,  thrusting  his  head 
through  the  door  (and  holding  his  head  in  it  so 
tightly  that  strangulation  was  imminent.)  "I  tell 
you  what,  aint  Maggie  going  home  to-night  ?" 


220  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

At  which  abrupt  interruption  there  was  a  roar  ; 
and  then  Reuben,  divining  the  matter  in  an  instant, 
astonished  and  terrified  Ike  by  boldly  seizing  the 
arm  of  Maggie,  and  declaring  his  intention  of 
accompanying  her  home. 

Reuben,  Maggie  and  Ike  disappeared  from  the 
room  ;  and  as  I  peered  wistfully  down  into  the 
grate,  my  listening  ear  caught  a  far-off  silvery 
cadence,  rising  merrily  and  sharp  upon  the  winter 
air. 

And  to  this  rising  cadence  my  heart  sunk  hea 
vily.  I  whistled  softly  as  I  walked  the  lonely  pas 
sages  on  the  way  to  my  chamber — and  slept  that 
night  with  my  face  to  the  wall. 


XIII. 

The  trio  discussive — How  silence  is  Power — A  tilt 
against  world-wisdom  in  which  the  Philosopher  breaks 
lances,  and  shows  us  the  paces  of  his  favorite  hobby — 
The  world  in  its  bustling  Fifth  Act — Individualization 
philosophically  considered — Hamlet — A  cherub  in  the 
clouds. 


221 


XIII. 

THE  candles  were  not  lighted,  and  twilight 
silence  brooded  in  the  room.  Suddenly  Mag 
gie  bolted  out  of  a  reverie,  and  said  : 

"  Sir,  your  pictures  will  some  day  make  you 
famous." 

This  was  to  the  artist,  for  now  Maggie  and  I  are 
no  longer  alone  ;  now,  nightly  the  glow  of  my  fire 
casts  a  new  shadow  on  the  wall ;  now,  by  the  north 
window  there  is  the  easel  where  a  summer  landscape 
daily  glides  upon  the  canvas. 

"  Success,"  replied  the  artist,  spreading  his  ten 
fingers  to  the  blaze,  "  is  up  a  precipice.  I  shall  not 
risk  my  neck  by  climbing." 

"  A  miss  is  as  good  as  a  mile,"  I  remarked.  "  So 
says  the  old  proverb  ;  but  in  literature,  and  perhaps 
art,  a  miss  is  the  infinite  space  between  heaven  and — 
its  alliterative  antagonism.  Upon  the  heights  of 
Parnassus  a  few  giants  sit  enthroned,  upon  whom 
the  gaze  and  light  of  the  world  are  turned.  A 
little,  a  very  little  way  below,  are  gathered  thousands 

223 


224  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

in  the  shadows,  almost  unheeded.  A  single  step 
would  take  them  to  the  uttermost  heights,  but 
their  strength  just  fails  the  last  strain.  The  bay- 
wreath  touches,  maddens,  but  never  crowns  them  ; 
and  they  sink  beneath  a  fate  worse  than  that  of 
Tantalus." 

"The  world,"  exclaimed  Reuben,  "shall  take  me 
as  I  am.  I  reject  its  candied  promises  of  fame  ;  I 
will  not  yield  to  its  weak  passion  for  notorieties.  I 
am  not  to  be  caged,  stared  at  and  petted  ;  I  refuse 
the  distinguished  consideration  which  it  seeks  to  be 
stow  upon  its  lions  ;  I  will  not  be  elevated  to  those 
dangerous  heights,  where  every  breath  of  envy  may 
blow  upon  me,  and  all  the  passions  bespatter  me  at 
then*  will." 

"  But  life  should  have  some  object." 

"  Life  is  affinity.  It  consists  in  enjoyment.  It  is 
a  sponge,  and  he  is  the  wisest  who  can  absorb  the 
most." 

"Let  us  air  your  simile,  a  little,"  said  I.  "  There 
are  sponges  various  in  quality  and  complexion  ; 
empty  sponges,  dry  and  tough  ;  sponges  bilged  with 
foulness  ;  sponges  sly  and  secret,  that  feed  upon  their 
acquisitions  like  rats  in  a  corner ;  then  there  are 
sponges  that  absorb  too  much,  and  at  a  touch  squirt 
it  upon  you." 

"  I  know  one   of   the  latter  quality,"   said  the 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  225 

artist ;  "  when  we  meet  there  is  a  deluge.     I  float 
upon  his  sea  of  talk,  and  pant  for  Ararat." 

"  Silence  is  power,"  exclaimed  I,  abruptly. 

"  A  paradox,"  cried  Maggie. 

"  Aye,  and  can  be  broken  on  the  back  of  a  butter 
fly,"  said  the  artist. 

"I  am  a  talker,"  said  I,  " and  have  delivered 
prosperously,  I  hope,  some  fair  things.  Yet  am  I 
conscious  that  there  is  not  a  dunce  stilted  in  stolid 
silence  anywhere,  who  is  not  my  superior.  For  the 
possibilities  of  wisdom  that  lie  in  matter  unspoken 
always  master  in  general  appreciation  the  quality  of 
that  which  is  uttered." 

"  Fairly  said,"  said  Reuben,  beating  with  his  finger 
in  the  air  a  sort  of  critical  accompaniment  to  my 
remarks. 

"  The  talker,  observe,  is  a  tradesman  with  wares 
to  market.  His  listeners  are  his  patrons,  and  may, 
if  they  please,  discard  his  fine  fabrics  ;  they  have 
the  power  to  sit  oracular  upon  his  trip  sentences, 
and  may  approve  or  condemn  by  the  tyranny  of 
capricious  ignorance.  The  talker  is  an  actor  who 
makes  his  bow  before  the  public,  and  must  submit 
to  an  orange-skin  from  the  gallery,  or  a  hiss  from 
the  pit ;  he  is  like  a  swordsman  with  his  guard  down 
and  his  breast  exposed,  while  silence,  with  its  sword- 
point  up,  its  armor  on,  its  visor  closed,  fossillated, 
10* 


226  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

dull,  stagnant,  cut  in  alabaster,  frowns  and  confronts 
him  in  conscious  power  ;  holds  the  trump  in  the 
game,  while  his  antagonist  shows  his  hand  ;  by  the 
mystery  and  masterly  virtue  of  being  nothing,  is 
Dogberry  judge  over  wit,  oracle,  and  philosophy." 

"  Henceforth,"  said  the  artist,  "  I  am  in  love  with 
negation." 

"It  is  a  good  mistress  to  woo.  /have  told  you 
before,  Maggie,  how  that  monosyllable  No  is  the 
Solomon  of  the  language." 

"  Wise  men,"  exclaimed  Reuben,  "  are  my  abomi 
nation.  I  mean  those  apostles  of  the  wisdom  in 
general  circulation — the  coiners  of  this  stamped 
metal  that  passes  current  in  trade  and  society  as  the 
best  representative  of  the  wants  and  duties  of  man. 
If  all  the  wisdom  in  the  world — the  indorsed  and  com 
monly  accepted  wisdom — were  set  before  me  in  some 
consolidated  form,  served  up,  say,  as  a  baked  pud 
ding,  I  should  forthwith  begin  and  eat  it  bottom  up 
wards." 

"  Now,"  said  Maggie,  "  let  us  see  him  get  out  of 
the  snarl  he  has  got  himself  in." 

"  Most  men  are  in  leading-strings  ;  they  are 
tucked  up  under  conventionalities  ;  they  wear  con 
servative  bibs  and  tuckers  to  the  hour  of  their  death 
. — or  burial,  let  me  say.  Custom  does  not  forego 
them  until  the  sod  hides  them.  These  men  are  mar- 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  227 

vellously  proper  gentlemen  ;  mild-mannered,  gentle- 
tongued,  calm-brained  ;  they  have  the  button-hole 
of  society,  and  make  laws  which  turn  only  upon  the 
smooth  and  pleasant  needs  of  her  high  courts.  Avo 
cation,  bold  performance,  new  roads  to  fame  or 
greatness  ;  the  genius  that  prompts  big  hearts  to 
Do  ;  the  philosophy  that  points  to  unknown  paths  ; 
all  individualization,  and  out-working  of  nature — 
these  things  these  mild  gentlemen  do  not  understand 
; — have  no  experiences  by  which  they  can  understand 
them — and  hence,  being  crowned  by  that  respecta 
bility  whose  frown  the  best  of  us  dread — patch  up 
and  pass  into  currency  certain  trimmed,  clipped  phi 
losophies  representative  of  life  in  a  negative  form, 
expository  of  the  wisdom  of  the  unattempted  ;  cau 
tious,  prudential,  narrow  philosophies,  that  hence 
forth  become  household  words  and  household  gods 
among  the  people." 

"  He  is  in  the  maze  yet,"  said  Maggie;  "it  is  diffi 
cult  to  follow  him,  but  he  will  lead  us  somewhere,  let 
us  hope." 

"  These  are  the  social  rulers;  these  are  those  whose 
wisdom  travels  in  the  channels  of  commerce  ;  who  by 
the  interests  of  property,  and  the  influence  of  pro 
perty,  by  the  conservative  instincts  that  spring  up 
in  every  man's  heart  the  moment  he  can  count  acres, 
obtain  majorities  and  make  laws  for  the  world.  They 


228  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

begin  by  vagabondizing  all  who  travel  off  the  high 
way;  they  brand  all  pursuits  that  do  not  legitimately 
('legitimate '  is  their  word)  carry  banners  upon  which 
are  inscribed  those  two  words  which,  hi  their  estima 
tion,  have  civilized  the  world,  '  Profit  and  Loss;"  they 
shut  the  door  upon  all  who  imply,  ever  so  indirectly  in 
their  mode  of  life,  that  the  true  foundation  of  society  is 
not  seven  per  cent,  per  annum;  or  who  aver,  even  as 
an  abstract  doctrine,  that  there  exist,  or  should  exist, 
no  social  distinctions  between  Much  and  Little.  Let 
me  step  down  from  generalization  to  special  illustra 
tion.  I  am  an  artist,  as  free  in  the  bent  of  my  impulses 
as  the  nature  I  study  and  love — hence  I  am  itinerant, 
vagabond  ;  but  John  Jellaway,  of  whom  I've  heard 
you  speak,  whose  art  is  to  shuffle  gams,  who  only 
studies  arithmetic  in  its  one  phase  of  addition,  who 
puzzles  and  tricks,  and  in  his  daily  transactions  hovers 
on  the  verge  of  roguery — why,  he  is  honorable,  legiti 
mate,  proper,  and  wise  to  the  very  top  of  wisdom. 
It  is  monstrous  to  see  how  this  class  of  men  rule  in 
our  civilization;  it  is  startling  to  behold  hi  TRADE  the 
modern  chivalry — the  art  and  aspiration,  the  hope 
and  desire  of  mankind;  to  see  it  enthroned  and  wor 
shipped  everywhere,  and  Life  hi  all  its  true  phases 
prostrated  at  the  foot  of  such  an  idol." 

"  The  Happy  Philosopher  is  false  to  his  title." 
"  No;  I  am  content  hi  my  own  wisdom,  which  is 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  229 

opposed  to  the  worldly  Solomons,  but  which  is  the 
true  philosophy,  and  I  am  its  prophet.  I  know  but 
one  rule  of  conduct — the  impulses  that  are  in  me  shall 
act,  the  nature  that  prompts  shah1  be  obeyed.  So 
ciety,  learning,  the  world,  each  and  all  tend  to  repress 
the  energies  and  weaken  the  motive  forces  of  the  in 
dividual;  it  is  only  your  free  vagabond,  like  myself, 
who  can  walk  through  life  the  sovereign  of  his  sur 
roundings — whose  nature,  undwarfed,  unstunted, 
thrifty  and  vigorous  in  its  powers  to  absorb  and  ex 
pand,  can  justly  claim  the  title  of  Happy — can  justly 
fulfill  the  true  destinies  of  man." 

"  Egotist !"  said  Maggie. 

"  Worse,  Maggie;  it  is  not  only  egotism  that  he  ex 
hibits,  but  that  stronger  passion,  egoism !  Let  him  step 
out  of  himself  and  his  philosophies,  and  he  will  see 
that  the  world  is  enough — brimmed  with  life,  thought 
feeling.  It  seems  to  me  to  have  gotten  into  one  of 
Shakspeare's  fifth  acts — all  bustle  and  action.  I  am 
bewildered  by  the  high-pressure  rush  of  events;  by 
the  whirl  of  new  things;  by  the  many  who  are  shout 
ing  at  the  world  with  all  their  might  to  get  the 
world's  attention  ;  by  the  new  books,  the  new  people, 
the  new  politics,  the  new  imbroglios,  the  new  sciences, 
the  new  arts,  the  new  pleasures,  the  new  revolutions, 
the  latest  catastrophes.  Every  page  of  the  journals  is 
crammed  with  intelligence — you  turn  from  one  column 


230  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

only  to  find  its  fellow  charged  to  the  mouth,  and  ready 
to  belch  its  bristling  contents  at  you — until  your  head 
whirls  like  a  whip-top,  and  the  whole  confused 
medley  seems  rushing  around  your  cranium,  heads 
and  points  together,  in  a  sort  of  up-side  down,  whirl- 
a-gig  steeple-chase.  Absolutely  something  must  be 
done  by  which  the  brain  can  keep  pace  with  all  these 
demands  upon  it." 

"  I  suggest  photography,"  cried  the  artist. 

"  It  is  my  only  hope.  When  the  sensory  becomes 
a  camera  obscura,  in  which  the  procession  of  events 
shall  cast  their  shadows  ;  when  by  some  mesmeric 
process  the  last  new  books  can  be  instantly  photo 
graphed  upon  the  brain  " 

"  Have  you  no  mercy?     All  the  new  books  ?" 

"  When  these  things  come  to  pass,  there  will  be 
some  possibility  of  the  individual  keeping  pace  with 
the  age  in  its  mad  scamper  into  the  future." 

"  Mr.  Dale,"  said  Maggie  to  the  artist,  "  he  is 
an  anchorite;  his  talk  belies  himself;  he  shuts  him 
self  from  the  world;  to  him  at  least  it  is  as  tedious 
as  a  thrice-told  tale." 

"  The  jar  of  the  world  as  it  rushes  by  rattles  our 
casements,  Maggie  ;  I  see  the  smoke,  the  dust ;  the 
clatter  breaks  upon  my  seclusion.  I  speak  now  as 
one  who  observes  ;  I  put  into  my  thought  the  sensa 
tions  of  those  who  are  hi  the  midst  of  the  battle." 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  231 

"  There  is  noise  and  fury,  it  is  true,"  said  Reuben  ; 
"  for  life  is  a  melo-drama.  But  how  little  character, 
wit,  high  sentiment  1  Individualization  is  the  un 
known  quantity." 

"  That  is  an  old  thought  which  needs  airing;  it  has 
grown  musty  and  moth-eaten  for  want  of  a  little 
shaking  up.  The  misery  of  life  is  not  that  we  are 
as  so  many  peas  in  a  pod,  but  that  our  differences 
are  angular  and  many.  There  is  too  much  discord 
and  collision  of  individualities  as  it  is.  We  bristle 
with  self-assertion,  and,  porcupine-like,  stick  our  little 
quills  into  every  antagonistic  self  we  encounter. 

"  Genius  and  taste,  in  whatever  direction  they 
may  accomplish,  are  perpetually  addressing  them 
selves  to  the  deaf  and  dumb  ;  thinkers,  artists,  poets, 
creators  in  all  arts,  famish  daily  in  the  need  of 
assimilation  ;  their  cry  is  for  affinities.  Individuali 
zation,  after  all,  is  incompleteness.  It  is  a  warped, 
gnarled,  imperfect  growth,  far  inferior  to  that  grand 
unity,  where  catholic  and  equal  distribution  of  parts, 
qualities,  tastes  and  appreciations  bestow  the  true 
perfection  of  character.  Completeness,  the  highest 
glory,  can  exhibit  but  little  individuality  ;  it  ripens 
towards  all  points  of  the  compass  ;  its  sympathizers 
are  comprehensive  and  universal.  Men  of  whom 
this  praise  can  be  uttered  might  render  life  a  little 
more  monotonous,  but  it  would  be  by  softening  down 


232  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

those  granite  angularities  upon  which  now  so  many 
hearts  are  bruised — by  filling  those  sloughs  of  neglect 
and  cold  unsympathy,  into  which  we  plunge  unheeded, 
where  we  struggle  and  die  unthought  of.  Give  me 
identity.  Where  is  the  man  whose  heart  reflects  the 
images  of  life  and  nature  cast  upon  it  as  mine  reflects 
them — while  my  dear  soul  is  mistress  of  her  choice, 
her  election  shall  seal  him  for  herself ! 

"  These  individualized  people  who  are  made  up  of 
saliences  and  abrupt  angles  are,  after  all,  nothing  but 
odds  and  ends  from  the  workshop  of  humanity.  It 
would  seem  as  if  some  of  nature's  workmen,  not  to 
speak  it  profanely,  had  moulded  for  mere  pastime  the 
clippings  and  remnants,  the  chips  hewn  from 
chiselled  and  perfected  creations,  into  odd  sem 
blances  of  men,  and  flung  them  half  made  up  into 
the  busy  affairs  of  life.  They  are  Mosaic  ;  like 
grandam's  patchwork,  their  parts  do  not  mate  nor 
match  ;  the  texture  of  their  woof  is  motley.  Do 
such  amuse  ?  By  Momus  !  so  does  a  monkey,  or 
an  obstinate  donkey,  or  a  clown,  or  any  fantastic 
thing  ! 

"  Characteristics  are  weaknesses ;  they  are  simply 
the  rattle  and  jar  of  ill-made  machinery — the  sharp 
friction  of  nature  in  weak  adjustment  of  means  to 
ends  !  The  perfect  instrument  is  smooth  and 
noiseless  ;  its  functions  are  so  equal  to  the  per- 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  233 

formance  required  that  the  task  is  accomplished 
with  the  repose  and  ease  of  complete  and  perfect 
strength. 

"  Character-drawing  in  fiction  is  as  easy  as  lying. 
How  often  does  it  consist  in  the  portrayal  of 
dwarfed  faculties — abnormal,  warted,  knotty  develop 
ments  ?  It  is  a  trade  ;  laws  can  be  framed  for  it  by 
which  success  can  be  rendered  certain.  For  instance, 
go  back  to  the  old  doctrine  of  temperaments.  Select 
your  character  from  any  one  of  the  five  divisions, 
and  cast  him  amid  a  series  of  counter-grained  events 
— pit  his  nature  and  his  surroundings  against  each 
other.  You  trade  with  his  weaknesses  ;  you  scorch 
him  in  the  heat  of  adverse  circumstances  until  every 
vein  and  seam  in  his  composition  start  out  and  show 
themselves,  webbed,  intercrossed — alto-relief  against 
the  plane  of  his  level  nature.  This  is  the  whole 
secret  of  Hamlet ;  out  of  his  weaknesses  and  his 
melancholy  arise  the  superstructure  of  character  and 
individuality. 

"Had  Hamlet  been  less  he  would  have  been 
more.  I  explain.  By  this  doctrine  of  tempera 
ments  and  by  phrenology  I  arrive  at  his  charac 
ter.  His  temperament  was  bilious,  crossed  by  the 
melancholic.  Had  he  been  of  the  first  only — -0? 
that  class  whom  the  ancients  assure  us  are  the 
rulers  of  the  world,  he  would  have  walked  frmi  the 


234  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

ghost  to  the  bed-side  of  his  uncle-father  and  cut  his 
throat  on  the  pillow  ;  tripped  him,  that  his  heels 
might  kick  at  heaven.  Between  the  conception  and 
execution  of  his  revenge  the  enterprise  would  not 
have  been  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought, 
and  so  turned  awry.  There  would  have  been  no 
infirm  vacillation  ;  his  will  and  purpose  would 
have  been  single  ;  his  clear  one-sided  mind  would 
have  been  equal  to  the  commands  imposed  upon  it ; 
he  would  have  been  a  hero  such  as  the  world's 
heroes  are,  a  Caesar  or  an  Alexander. 

"  But  Hamlet's  intellect  was  complete  and  full ; 
it  scaled  from  cause  to  effect ;  it  was  all-sided,  mas 
terly,  bathed  like  the  mountain-tops  in  perfect  light. 
Yet  with  all  this  splendid  development  of  that 
which  was  purely  intellectual — with  that  full,  broad 
high  brow,  somewhat  weak  at  the  base,  but  swell 
ing  upward  from  eyebrows  and  temples  with  the 
inverted  lines  of  the  pyramid — there  was  a  deficiency 
of  what  I  will  call  alloy  ;  for  man  is  like  gold,  which 
in  its  purest  state  is  consumed  by  the  friction  of 
use  ;  it  must  be  hardened  by  some  base  alloy  ere  it 
can  be  adapted  to  work-day  purposes.  In  Hamlet 
the  man  animal  was  weak ;  the  brain  bulged  hi 
its  frontal  lines,  but  the  poll  was  flat  ;  the  baser 
but  active  quah'ties,  the  motive  forces,  the  brain 
behind  the  ears,  the  man  as  distinguished  from 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  235 

the  intellect  in  its  bold,  blind  self-assertion  through 
obstinacy,  tenacity,  will,  spirit  of  action  —  those 
qualities  which  are  supreme  among  Great  Doers, 
who  think  clearly  and  well,  perhaps,  but  think 
only  in  grooves  and  straight  lines  —  in  all  these 
things  lay  Hamlet's  weakness.  Upon  a  man  who 
could  only  think  was  enjoined  a  duty  which  could 
be  performed  alone  by  a  man  who  could  only  act. 
Yet  Hamlet  was  not  exclusively  intellectual — else 
his  philosophy  by  some  cold  and  ingenious  logic 
would  have  opened  doors  for  the  escape  of  duty. 
His  heart  was  warm  and  rich  ;  it  over-flowed  with 
love,  and  urged  the  reluctant  will  to  its  sacred 
and  filial  purpose.  Between  the  equipoise  of  im 
pulse  and  philosophy  he  vacillated ;  a  purpose  of 
revenge  born  of  the  age,  education,  and  the  dark 
surroundings  of  example  and  precept,  tngged  at 
his  heart  one  way  ;  while  his  philosophy,  lighted 
by  the  lights  of  a  century  in  advance,  tugged  at 
his  heart  the  other  way. 

"Alas,  for  him  and  for  all  men  who  think  too 
much  1  Melancholy  is  the  air  they  breathe  ;  doubt 
sits  like  a  ghoul  upon  their  brains  ;  skepticism 
flings  its  misty  shadow  ever  on  their  path.  Im 
pulse  alone  is  the  god-like.  Mysterious  Nature ! 
so  often  best  for  being  lowliest !  To  her  " 

I  turned   towards  my  listeners,  and  they  were 


236  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

not !  For  during  all  this  digressive  reverie  my 
gaze  had  been  fixed  abstractedly  on  a  carved  head 
of  marble  on  the  mantel  over  my  grate.  I  started 
from  the  recumbent  depths  of  my  easy-chair,  but 
the  suspended  cadence  of  my  voice  had  startled 
them  ;  the  curtains  rustled,  and  from  the  window 
recess  they  emerged — the  fire-light  casting  a  glow 
of  unusual  warmth  over  the  features  of  Maggie. 

"There  is  a  cherub  in  the  clouds,"  I  said ;  "  you 
have  looked  for  him." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  artist  ;  and  he   whistled. 

I  turned,  and  my  eyes  sought  pensively  the  ashes 
in  the  grate.  "  It  is  plain,"  I  murmured  ;  "  my  phi 
losophies  will  soon  whistle  about  the  corners  of  the 
room  and  nobody  heed  them.  Afar  off  there  is  a 
cloud  ;  I  feel  its  shadow  grow  ;  I  see,  too  well,  that 
soon  it  will  cast  its  gloom  athwart  my  hearth,  and 
silence,  perhaps  forever,  my  winter  gossip." 


XIV. 

The  artist  robs  my  hearthstone  of  its  winter  blossom 
— Maggie  and  I  in  our  parting  chat — The  lovers  go 
forth  into  their  future — Ike  and  I  the  abandoned  and 
disconsolate — My  winter  fire  is  out. 


28T 


XIV. 

IT  is  more  than  two  weekly  cycles  since  the  artist 
crossed  my  threshold.  But  in  that  brief  time 
swift  growths  have  sprung  up  in  the  heart-soils 
around  me.  In  Maggie  there  is  expansion.  Her 
eyes  glisten  ;  her  cheeks  dapple  as  if  the  fingers  of 
Aurora  played  with  them  ;  smiles  crop  out  upon  her 
lips  in  harvest  bountifulness.  I  catch  her  at  times 
before  the  mirror,  new  ribboned  ;  and  more  than  all, 
when  I  talk,  she  does  not,  as  before,  sit  at  my  feet 
with  ear  pricked  and  eye  wistful.  She  has  seized 
upon  my  suggestion  and  studies  art — over  the 
shoulder  of  Reuben  Dale. 

In  the  twilight  glow  of  the  fire,  when  the  curtains 
were  dropped  but  the  candles  unlighted,  Maggie 
came  alone  and  drew  a  low  seat  close  to  me.  She 
was  silent  and  a  h'ttle  sad — the  sadness,  however,  as 
it  seemed  to  me,  of  some  complete  and  hopeful  hap 
piness. 

I  placed  my  hand  on  her  head. 

"  Well,  Maggie,  this  is  spring,  and  our  winter  fire 


240  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

will  soon  be  out.  Our  talk  is  fast  rounding  to  its 
final  period." 

"  Sir,"  said  Maggie,  and  her  voice  was  tremulous 
and  low,  "your  books,  your  friendship  have  done  so 
much  for  me  P 

"  I  have  talked,  Maggie,  that  is  all — wildly  and 
freely,  I  must  confess.  I  have  called  up  black  spirits 
and  grey ;  your  ear  has  been  like  the  witches'  cal 
dron,  into  which  I  have  cast  odd  ingredients.  But 
out  of  sand,  and  loam,  and  clay  the  sun  and  the  rain 
spin  fine  tissues,  and  weave  them  into  a  vast,  all- 
beautiful  robe  of  green  for  the  universal  face  of 
nature.  So,  Maggie,  has  your  quickening  nature 
ripened  into  good  and  noble  growths  some  of  the 
seed  I  have  cast  upon  your  heart.  But  tell  me. 
Those  ambitions,  do  they  blaze  now  as  before  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir.  I  think  not — at  least  not 
always.  I  am  more  contented  now." 

"Why?" 

She  blushed,  then  looked  askance,  and  smiled. 

"  I  have  followed  your  teaching." 

"  Mine,  Maggie,  or  the  artist's  ?" 

"  I  mean  to  be  an  artist,"  said  she  with  great 
quickness.  "  Mr.  Dale  will  teach  me.  The  oppor 
tunity  will  be  afforded,  and  if  I  have  any  genius  it 
will  appear." 

"  There  is  an  art  older  than  the  art  of  painting — 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  241 

the  first  of  all  arts.  It  dates  back  to  Eden.  I 
think  sometimes,  Maggie,  that  you  are  an  amateur 
already." 

"  Reuben  says  I  am  very  apt." 

She  did  not  or  would  not  understand  me. 

"  I  believe  him,  Mag.  It  is  an  art  in  which  girl 
hood — fresh,  green,  timid  girlhood — makes  the  no 
blest,  adepts  ;  an  art  that  has  been  glorified  in  all 
ages,  under  ah1  suns." 

"  I  didn't  mean  that." 

"  Didn't  mean  what  ?" 

No  answer,  and  a  long,  eloquent  pause. 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  sir,"  speaking  at  last,  but  very 
low,  and  hesitatingly,  "will  you  tell  me,  sir,  about 
Mr.  Dale  ?  Do  you  like  him  ?" 

"  He  is  a  thief,  Maggie." 

A  spring  upright,  and  a  blazing  eye. 

"  There  was  a  flower  growing  on  my  hearth-stone. 
Its  roots  spread  out,  its  leaves  expanded  under  my 
care  and  nurture.  Blossoms  began  to  unfold  upon 
its  branches  ;  I  was  glad  ;  I  bent  over  and  watched 
for  the  flower  which  should  reward  me  ;  suddenly 
his  hand  stretched  out  and  robbed  me  of  all." 

She  sat  down  softly,  and  looked  away. 

"  Do  not  think  that  I  repine,  however.  The 
flower  will  flourish  better  perhaps  with  him  than 
with  me.  He  is  young — that  is  divine.  He  is  the 
11 


242  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

summer  sun,  and  rich  fruits  will  ripen  beneath  the 
glory  of  his  beams,  while  my  winter  rays,  oblique 
and  chill,  fail  to  warm  the  thing  they  shine  upon. 
Still  I  am  a  dreamer,  one  that  scales  all  possibilities  ; 
and  sometimes,  inspired  by  this  fireside  flower,  I  have 
dreamed  of  age  rolled  back  into  youth — ivory  on  my 
temples,  raven  in  my  locks,  and  nectar  in  my  veins — 
the  dull,  clogged,  heavy  blood  of  age  transfused  into 
the  fiery  currents  of  youth  1" 

Maggie's  head  was  averted  and  stilled  into  ala 
baster.  The  flickering  glow  from  the  grate,  ruddy 
and  gay,  played  and  danced  upon  her  cheek,  her 
ear,  her  shoulder — came  and  went  as  the  blaze  from 
the  coals  leaped  and  wavered,  lighting  up  the  shad 
ows  hi  her  curls,  glancing  into  her  eyes — but  all 
unheeded.  A  stillness  so  profound  came  over  us  ! 
The  clock  ticked  as  if  its  steam  were  up,  and  it  was 
off  for  a  race  with  tune  ;  the  curtains  hung  motion 
less  against  the  panes  ;  the  fire  blazed  in  a  hushed, 
watchful  way  ;  the  clock  alone  was  noisy,  and 
rushed  along  pell-mell  with  us  into  the  future. 

Suddenly  Maggie  turned  and  put  her  two  hands 
on  my  knee,  and  looked  earnestly  in  my  face. 

"  Sir,  tell  me  what  you  mean." 

"  Tut,  Maggie  !  I  held  a  fireside  masque — that 
was  all.  At  midnight  when  churchyards  yawn, 
and  all  the  wild  fancies,  those  gipsies  of  the  brain, 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  243 

come  out  and  dance  their  fantastic  revel  through 
the  mazes  of  the  imagination,  I  gave  caprice  a 
brief  holiday  ;  I  conjured  up  sweet  possibilities  ;  I 
dreamed  of  plucking  my  fireside  blossom  and  wear 
ing  it  in  my  left  button-hole.  But  I  am  sixty, 
you  see,  and  you  are" 

"  Seventeen — that  is,  in  May.  But  you  are  not 
sixty  1" 

"At  least  I  have  completed  three  cycles  equal 
to  yours.  I  have  spoken  dreams,  only,  Mag.  It  is 
sweet  to  dream.  Henceforth  I  shall  have  a  new 
memory  to  cherish — that's  all." 

"  Then  you  forgive,  you  will  sanction — that  is  " 

The  artist  broke  in  upon  our  talk. 

"Reuben,"  cried  I,  "you  are  false  in  act  and 
false  in  tongue." 

"I  defend  myself,  my  guard  is  up.  Thrust 
away." 

"  Your  philosophy  is  a  cheat,  false  disciple  ! 
It  proclaims  the  divinity  which  hedges  in  a  man 
who  has  no  wants,  and  in  the  very  breath  covets 
a  neighbor's  goods." 

"  Life  and  Nature  are  mine  ;  I  did  not  covet — 
I  claimed  the  gift  demised  by  heaven.  Such  boons 
are  clearly  within  the  meaning  of  my  philosophy. 
Property,  as  Proudhon  says,  is  theft.  That  I  dis- 


244  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

dain,  but  wealth  like  this  (he  faced  towards  Mag 
gie)  is  the  gift  of  Eden — the  primal  happiness." 

"  I  would  not  trust  your  probity  with  my  pocket 
change.  I  am  robbed,  it  seems,  and  can  get  no  justice." 

"The  affinities  alone  are  law-makers  in  a  case 
like  this — the  jewel  robbed  elects  to  be  stolen." 

"  And  I  must  burrow  henceforth  sadly  and  alone 
in  the  empty  casket.  Alas,  I  mourn  for  my  de 
serted  hearth,  for  the  capricious  fancies  that  must 
bubble  up  and  die  unheeded.  Forsaken  the  familiar 
places  !  the  walks  !  the  books !  the  fireside  corner  ! 
the  very  air — forsaken  is  hapless  Ike  !" 

Maggie  ran  and  put  two  fingers  upon  my  lips. 

Happy  and  light-tongued  were  they  both  that 
night ;  they  prophesied,  and  looked  into  the  here 
after  through  rose-tints.  The  future  was  their  grand 
cartoon,  and  on  its  ample  spaces  they  limned  mag 
nificent  dreams. 

"  To-morrow,"  said  the  artist,  "  I  go." 

"Whither?" 

"Townward." 

"  And  Maggie  ?" 

"  Ah,  dear  sir,"  whispered  Maggie,  "  this  is  the 
last  of  our  Winter  Nights." 

***** 

With  my  face  against  the  pane  I  watched  Richard 
and  Maggie  wend  homeward  in  the  light  of  the 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  245 

moon.  They  walked  side  by  side,  and  by  the  line 
of  glittering  sheen  and  by  the  shadow,  I  could  trace 
his  arm  as  it  wound  about  her  form — encircling,  pro 
tecting,  usurping  ! 

"  Come  Prophecy,"  I  muttered,  "  draw  your  happy 
augury,  for  see,  the  shadows  fall  behind  them,  and 
they  walk  forward  into  the  light !" 

I  turned,  for  there  was  a  shuffle  and  a  snuffle  in 
the  room,  and  there,  wedged  in  between  the  mantel 
column  and  the  grate,  stood  poor  Ike,  his  spread  eyes 
as  big  and  red  as  rising  moons,  his  hair  part  on 
end  and  part  matted  down,  and  his  lips  curved 
downward  in  the  disconsolate  and  pitiful  lines  of 
grief. 

"She's  gone,"  he  blubbered,  and  rubbed  his 
knuckles  into  his  eyes  until  they  waxed  bigger  and 
redder  than  ever. 

The  room  looked  so  drear  that  I  drew  my  chair 
up  to  the  grate.  Ike  snuffling  and  sidling,  crept  near 
me,  as  if  by  the  magnetism  of  sympathy,  and  dropped 
on  the  floor  at  my  feet. 

"  Ah,  Ike  1"  said  I,  "  we  are  the  forsaken  ones. 
We  must  put  our  two  griefs  together,  and  henceforth 
be  sympathizing  friends.  What  say  you  ?" 

He  sobbed,  and  for  a  moment  his  grief  threatened 
to  be  explosive. 

"Strange   conjunction,"  muttered   I;    "by  the 


246  A  Bachelor's  Story. 

universal  identity  of  human  sentiment  Ike  and  I 
meet  upon  the  same  plane  of  experience  and 
feeling  1" 

Ike  nestled  close  to  my  feet  and  was  still,  the 
candles  flickered  dun,  a  chill  crept  through  the  air,  a 
melancholy  silence  settled  down  heavily  upon  us  both. 

The  grate  looked  dead,  and  I  thrust  the  poker  down 
amid  the  coals — my  winter  fire  was  out ! 

This  is  spring.  Nature,  in  its  young  greenness,  is 
as  fresh  as  girlhood.  The  air  is  fragrant,  and  the 
orchards  are  gay  with  apple  blossoms.  I  am  busy 
for  the  nonce  in  my  garden — training  my  vines, 
propping  my  nurselings,  earthing  my  plants,  and 
watching  with  eager  interest  the  rapid  evolvements 
of  nature's  great  drama.  How  the  subterranean 
forces  are  at  work  ;  how  the  juices  course,  the  buds 
burst,  the  leaves  unfold,  the  roots  sprout,  until  out 
of  this  grand  laboratory,  the  earth,  spring  myriad 
forms  of  beauty. 

Spring  is  almost  as  much  a  new  birth  to  me  as  it 
is  to  nature.  I  rejoice  in  it  as  a  mother  rejoices  in 
her  latest  born.  I  watch  the  green  as  it  deepens  on 
the  slopes,  and  the  buds  as  they  swell  and  expand. 
Shady  Side,  so  long  unfrequented,  becomes  my  haunt 
again.  The  music  of  the  flowing  stream,  so  long 
locked  in  icy  silence,  begins  once  more  to  ripple  its 


A  Bachelor's  Story.  247 

unbroken  song  ;  and  as  the  season  advances,  soon  do 
I  hear  the  clashing  leaves,  swept  by  the  summer 
winds,  rising  and  falling  in  melodious  utterance.  I 
watch  the  tree-tops  as  they  spread  out  and  wave 
their  green  awnings,  and  note  the  shadows  daily 
growing  denser  and  richer,  until  a  summer  fullness 
rests  upon  all. 

Then  the  rod,  the  poem,  the  noonday  reverie  ; 
then,  while  stretched  under  green  boughs,  come 
dreams  of  the  past ;  down  through  a  long  vista  come 
Beatrice,  and  Maggie,  and  all  memories ;  then 
imagination  is  a  camera-obscura,  peopled  by  shadows 
cast  from  the  teeming  past. 


THE     END. 


.A.d.mira/ble   ISTovel 


THE  ROMANCE 

OF  A 

POOR    YOUNG    MAN. 

BY     OCTAVE    FEUILLET. 

Translated  from  the  Seventh  Paris  Edition  by  HENRY  J.  MAO- 
DONALD  (late  of  Corpus  Ghristi  College,  Oxford).  One  volume, 
12mo.,  muslin.  Price,  $1  00. 


"  The  story  of  a  Poor  Young  Man,  by  OCTAYE  FEUILLET,  is  the  title  of  a  fiction 
which,  under  two  distinct  and  even  contradictory  forms,  has  gained  a  success 
unrivalled  since  the  palmiest  days  of  Voltaire.  Having  passed  numerous  editions 
as  a  novel,  and  being  read  by  everybody,  it  was  dramatized,  and  after  an  immense 
run  in  Paris,  is  now  performed  to  crowded  audiences  on  almost  every  stage  from 
which  the  French  language  is  spoken.  This  is  perhaps  the  first  instance  where  a 
first-rate  novel,  without  the  aid  of  the  composer,  has  been  highly  successful  on 
the  stage. 

"  The  author  is  yet  quite  a  young  man,  but  his  literary  career  from  its  very  out 
set  has  been  distinguished  by  a  brilliancy  and  good  fortune  seldom  vouchsafed  to 
those  who  woo  the  muse  until  they  have  passed  through  the  fierce  ordeal  of  dis 
appointments,  heart-sores,  and  despair.  He  never  made  a  failure;  his  earliest 
production  pleased  the  public,  and  his  last  enrolled  his  name  in  letters  of  gold  on 
the  annals  of  French  literature.  The  Empress  sent  for  him  to  tell  him  how  she 
had  wept  over  his  book,  and  then  made  the  Emperor  compliment  him.  From 
that  moment  every  one  wished  to  read  a  work  that  had  called  forth  such  distin 
guished  applause." — Brussels  Correspondent. 

"  Of  late  years  a  new  and  wholesome  tendency  has  appeared  in  French  imagi 
native  literature.  A  class  of  writers  have  appeared,  who,  instead  of  appealing  to 
morbid  passions  and  depraved  tastes,  have  gained  a  reputation  by  depicting  the 
pure  and  healthy  emotions  of  the  heart,  by  developing  the  charms  of  genial  and 
symmetrical  characters,  and  by  exhibiting  men  and  women  nobly  triumphing 
over  adverse  circumstances  and  social  temptations. 

"Of  this  new  school  of  writers,  two  conspicuous  examples  are  found  in  the 
works  of  EMILE  SOUVESTEE  and  OCTAVE  FEUILLET.  The  latter  we  propose  to 
introduce,  by  a  spirited  version  of  his  'BOMANCE  OF  A  POOR  YOUNG  MAN,' 
which  has  recently  appeared  in  Paris,  and  has  been  hailed  by  both  French  and 
English  critics  as  perhaps  the  most  striking  and  admirable  work  of  fiction  that 
appeared  in  any  country  during  the  year  1858.  Indeed,  since  '  Jane  Eyre '  startled 
the  novel-reading  world,  we  hardly  remember  another  production  of  the  kind 
which,  for  beauty  and  interest,  can  be  compared  with  this." — From  the  New 
York  Tribune. 


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CURIOSITIES 

OF 

NATURAL    HISTORY. 

BY   FRANCIS   T.   BUCKLAND,   M.A.,    OXFORD. 
1  Vol.  12mo.    Illustrated.    Price,  $1  25. 

From  the  London  Edition. 

"The  reader  need  not  apprehend  stereotype  anecdotes  of 
animals  in  this  capital  book,  by  the  son  of  the  late  celebrated 
geologist,  Dr.  BUCKLAND.  The  work  is  no  stale  repetition,  but 
enters  upon  a  new  field.  One  feels  as  if  he  were  rambling  in 
the  company  of  an  agreeable  and  well-informed  friend,  who  is 
ever  pointing  out  objects  of  interest,  even  in  the  most  unlooked- 
for  places.  Whoever,  for  instance,  has  hitherto  regarded  a  horse- 
pond  with  disgust,  will  after  reading  a  few  pages,  take  a  sudden 
interest  in  its  contents,  and  look  upon  it  even  as  an  agreeable 
variety  of  Aquarium.  Then,  too,  the  curious  details  respecting 
Rats,  those  unfortunate  animals  who  may  be  said  to  have  no 
friends,  and  yet  seem  to  be  always  convivial.  Snakes,  also, 
and  fish  and  fishing  come  in  for  their  share  in  Mr.  Buckland's 
book.  Many  a  reader  will,  doubtless,  here  learn  to  his  surprise 
that  certain  kinds  of  fishes  are  known  to  make  nests.  Other 
things  too  will  he  get  a  hint  of,  that  will  startle  him  out  of  his 
apathy  to  facts  in  Natural  History.  It  would  puzzle  many  to 
answer  the  question,  Do  bats  lay  eggs  ?  It  would  puzzle  more 
how  best  to  rescue  a  friend  from  the  folds  of  a  Cobra.  Of  such 
matters  this  volume  is  full.  In  short,  it  is  a  curiosity  in  itself, 
and  shows  how  completely  a  clever  man,  thoroughly  impressed 
with  his  subject,  and  of  enlarged  knowledge  and  varied  expe 
rience,  can  dispel  the  feelings  of  aversion  with  which  the  igno 
rant  and  thoughtless  have  been  wont  to  regard  some  of  the 
iiumbler  members  of  the  animal  world. 

In  Natural  History,  as  well  as  in  other  researches,  it  is  too 
much  the  practice  to  copy  facts  and  observations  from  printed 
books,  the  volume  of  Nature  herself  being  left  unopened.  It  has 
been  the  aim  of  the  author  to  search  into  this  wonderful  book, 
to  record  facts  which  came  under  his  own  eyes,  at  the  same 
time  not  neglecting  the  numerous  works  and  lectures  of  cele 
brated  Naturalists ;  and  the  book  before  us  is  probably  the  most 
complete  collection  of  instructive  and  anecdotal  sketches  upon 
the  interesting  subject  of  Natural  History  which  has  ever 
appeared." 

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THE 

AFTERNOON 

OP 

UNMARRIED  LIFE. 

A  COMPANION  TO  "A  WOMAN'S  THOUGHTS  ABOUT  -WOMEN." 


1  Vol.  12mo.    muslin.    Price  $1  00. 

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"  We  rarely  see  a  book  in  which  strong  common  sense  and  an 
attractive  style  are  so  admirably  combined  in  the  treatment  of 
an  interesting  theme  as  in  this  volume.  Of  the  work  itself,  we 
have  to  say  at  the  outset  that  it  is  the  best  in  this  particular 
department  of  literature  that  we  have  ever  read.  Of  its  ability 
there  cun  be  no  question.  There  is  a  strength  and  steadiness  of 
thought ;  a  flow  of  good  sense  and  wise  suggestions  and  coun 
sel  from  introduction  to  finis.  In  style,  the  volume  has  the 
nerve  and  masculinity  of  man ;  and  the  spirit  and  clearness  of 
woman.  The  impression  that  rests  in  the  mind  after  perusal  i?, 
that  the  book  is  the  product  of  one  who  has  seen  much  of 
human  nature,  observed  its  workings  and  wants,  who  has  the 
power  and  feeling  of  thought  to  a  more  than  common  extent, 
and  in  whom  wide  observation  has  grown  into  most  intelligent 
judgment.  She  sees  woman  both  as  she  is  and  as  she  should 
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our  own  part  we  have  read  the  work  not  only  to  the  end  of 
experiencing  a  new  sensation  upon  an  old  subject,  but  of  getting 
more  and  better  ideas  of  woman — her  actualities,  probabilities, 
and  possibilities,  and  one  rises  from  its  perusal  with  a  conviction 
that  its  author  was  gifted  with  a  warm  heart,  a  clear  judgment, 
and  delicate  feeling,  and  that  she  has  thought,  felt,  and  observed 
much  in  the  position  of  her  sex.  The  simplest  conclusions 
wrought  out  by  experience  are  worth  a  thousand  unimproved 
theories,  therefore  these  chapters  commend  themselves  to  atten 
tion  and  will  touch  some  responsive  chord  in  many  hearts.  We 
think  there  are  few  women,  be  they  maid  or  matron,  mother, 
wife,  or  sister,  who  might  not  gather  from  this  suggestive  volume 
some  hints  to  lighten  their  own  lot  or  enable  them  to  fulfil  more 
faithfully  and  cheerfully,  the  duties  which  Providence  has 
assigned  to  them." 

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NEW  SCHOOL  TALE. 


ERIC:  OR,  LITTLE  BY  LIITLE. 

A  TALE  OP  ROSLTN  SCHOOL. 

BY  FREDERICK  W.  FARRER. 
(FELLOW  OF  TRINITY  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE.) 


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books  that  it  has  ever  been  our  lot  to  read.  No  book,  since  the 
advent  of  '  Tom  Brown's  School  Days  at  Rugby'  has  given 
such  an  admirable  picture  of  inner  school  life.  Although  couched 
in  the  form  of  a  fictitious  narrative,  and  professing  to  deal  wholly 
with  fictitious  characters,  the  tale  bears  the  impress  of  being  a 
record  of  the  author's  school-boy  feelings  and  impressions.  Writ 
ten  apparently  for  the  immediate  perusal  of  that  class  of  readers 
more  peculiarly  identified  with  the  principal  characters  described, 
yet  the  book  is  one  which  appeals  most  powerfully  to  the  hearts 
of  all  who  have  hearts  to  feel  and  minds  to  think.  Apart  from 
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bias  that  is  not  pedantic  or  sectarian,  and  from  which  an  ad 
mirable  moral  may  be  derived,  the  powerful  and  diversified  in 
terest  of  the  tale  itself  cannot  fail  of  luring  on  from  page  to  page 
the  feelings  of  curiosity  and  the  reader. 

Want  of  space  allows  us  only  to  call  attention  to  some  touch 
ing  incidental  remarks  upon  school-boy  joys  and  sorrows,  upon 
the  destinies  of  the  boys,  whose  names  are  cut  upon  the  school 
room  walls,  and  other  topics  connected  with  the  poetic  side  of 
juvenile  life.  All  these  scenes  are  most  delicately  touched ;  and 
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THE   ELEPHANT   CLUB. 

An  irresistibly  droll  volume.  By  DOESTICKS,  assisted  by 
KNMGHT  Russ  OCKSIDE,  M.D.  One  of  his  best  works 
Profusely  illustrated  by  McLenan.  Muslin,  price  $l  oo. 

THE  WITCHES  OF  NEW  YORK. 

A  new  humorous  work  by  DOESTICKS  ;  being  minute, 
particular,  and  faithful  Revelations  of  Black  Art 
Mysteries  in  Gotham,  lamo.  Muslin,  price  $i  oo 

TWO    WAYS   TO   WEDLOCK. 

A  Novellette.  Reprinted  from  the  columns  of  Morris  & 
Willis'  New  York  Home  Journal,  izmo.  Hand 
somely  bound  in  muslin.  Price  81  oo, 

THE  SPUYTENDEVIL  CHRONICLE. 

A  sparkling  Novel  of  young  Fashionable  Life  in  New  York ; 
a  Saratoga  Season  ;  Flirtations,  &c.  A  companion 
to  the  "Potiphar  Papers."  Muslin,  price  75  cents. 

ROMANCE   OF   A    POOR    YOUNG    MAN. 
From  the  French  of  OCTAVE   FEUILLET.      An    admirable 
and    striking    work    of  fiction.     Translated    from  the 
Seventh  Paris  edition.      izmo.      Muslin,  price  $i   oo. 


LIST   OF   BOOKS   PUBLISHED 


THE  CULPRIT  FAY. 

By  JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE.  A  charming  edition  of  thii 
world-celebrated  Faery  Poem.  Printed  on  colored 
plate  paper.  Muslin,  izmo.  Frontispiece.  Price,  50  cts. 

THE  NEW  AND  THE  OLD  ; 

Or,  California  and  India  in  Romantic  Aspects.  By  ]. 
W.  PALMER,  M.D.,  author  of  "  Up  and  Down  the  Irra- 
waddi."  Abundantly  illustrated.  Muslin,  I2mo.  $1,25. 

UP  AND  DOWN  THE  IRRAWADDI ; 

Or,  the  Golden  Dagon.  Being  passages  of  adventure  in 
the  Burman  Empire.  By  J.  W.  PALMER,  M.D.,  author 
of  "The  New  and  the  Old."  Illustrated.  Price,  %i,oo. 

ERIC;  OR,  LITTLE  BY  LITTLE. 

A  Tale  of  Roslyn  School.  By  F.  W.  FARRAR  (Fellow  ot 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge).  An  admirable  picture 
of  inner  school  life.  Muslin,  1 2mo.  Price,  $1,00. 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF   THE  REVOLUTION. 

A  private  manuscript  journal  of  home  events,  kept  during 
the  American  Revolution  by  the  Daughter  of  a  Clergy 
man.  Printed  in  unique  style.  Muslin.  Price,  $1,00 

HARTLEY  NORMAN. 

A  New  Novel.  "  Close  and  accurate  observation,  enables 
the  author  to  present  the  scenes  of  everyday  life  with 
great  spirit  and  originality."  Muslin,  I2mo.  Price,6i,oo. 

BORDER  WAR. 

A  Tale  of  Disunion.  By  J.  B.  JONES,  author  of  "  Wild 
Western  Scenes.''  One  of  the  most  popular  books  ever 
published  in  America.  Muslin.  I2mo.  Price,  $1,25. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


IBWW  FACILITY 


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